















BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


I 



I 


I • I 



BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


A TALE OF PORTSMOUTH TOWN 


BY 

^ WALTER BESANT and JAMES RICE 

li 


LIBRARY EDITION 


NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
Publishers 







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.'--fs‘ls-,lV V'*" ^ 






« 




« 







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CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAOl 

I. ON THE QUEEN’S BASTION* ••••••• 9 

II. THE CAPTAIN l8 

III. VICTORY ROW , , • i . 26 

IV. THIRTY YEARS AGO • • • • • • • . 35 

V. THE YOUNG PRINCE 46 

VI. CELIA • . • • • • • 0 0 0 * 5 ^ 

VII. AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL . . • • ^ . 65 

VIII. THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN • • • 73 

IX. HOPES AND FEARS , 82 

X. WAR. *.••••••••• 89 

XI. THE WAR, AND AFTER . . . . i • . ' . 97 

XII. THE BRAMBLER FAMILY . . • 0 0 . . I06 

XIIL A FLOWER OF LOVE • - US 

XIV. ON THE SEA-SHORE • • • " . , 0 0 . I23 

XV. LA VIE DE PROVINCE . . • . m m • . I3I 

XVI. A DINNER-PARTY I4I 

XVII. AN OLD PROMISE . . • • 0 • 0 .150 

XVIII. FROM THE ORGAN-LOFT 

XIX. THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. . 168 

XX. THE RIGHT OF REVOLT. , , . • • . . 177 

XXL THE WORLD AND THE WORD 185 

XXII. A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR 0 I92 

XXIII. MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS 0 0 0 ,208 

XXIV. THE CONSPIRATOR • 0 .2l8 

XXV. WASSIELEWSKI’S SECRET . . . • . . 226 

XXVI. THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS 235 

XXVIL THE DAY BEFORE • . • 242 

XXVIII. THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE 25 1 

XXIX. “A SURPRISE” 261 

XXX. LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY 267 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


r 

CHA.P. PAGB 


XXXI. 

LEONARD CONTINUES HIS 

STORY 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

276 

XXXTI. 

A FRIENDLY CHAT 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 


• 

284 

XXXIII. 

A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

293 

XXXIV. 

AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

304 

XXXV. 

A DIPLOMATIST . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

310 

XXXVI. 

THE FOURTH ESTATE . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

316 

XXXVII. 

love’s VICTORY . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

326 

XXXVIII. 

THE KEY OF THE SAFE 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

337 

XXXIX. 

BORROWED PLUMES . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

346 

" XL. 

MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR 

PERKIN 

WARBECK 

• 

• 

356 

XLI. 

MISS RUTHERFORD 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

364 

XLII. 

A FAMILY COUNCIL . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

371 

XLIII. 

CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

376 

XLIV. 

THE DEPUTATION 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

388 

XLV. 

HERR rIuMER’S INTENTIONS 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

401 

XLVI. 

A FAMILY GATHERING 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

405 

XLVII. 

THE pole’s VENGEANCE 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

411 

XLVIII. 

AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

419 

XLIX. 

A coroner’s INQUEST 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

428 

L. 

“LEONARD AND CIS** . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

437 

LI. 

“ RING, WEDDING BELLS 1 

>1 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

444 

LII. 

CONCLUSION . 








452 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


CHAPTER Z 

ON THE queen’s BASTION, 

I ^WO boys and a girl, standing together in the north-west 
corner of the Queen’s Bastion on the old town wall. 
Leonard, the elder boy, leans on an old-fashioned 32- 
pounder which points through an embrasure, narrow at the 
mouth and wide at the end, straight up the harbour. 

Should any enemy attempt to cross the lagoon of mud 
which forms the upper harbour at low tide, that enemy 
would, as Leonard often explained, be raked ” by the gun. 
Leonard is a lad between seventeen and eighteen, tall and 
well-grown. As yet his figure is too slight, but that will fill 
out ; his shoulders are broad enough for the strength a year 
or two more will give him ; he has short brown hair of quite 
a common colour, but lustrous, and with a natural curl in it ; 
his eyes are hazel, and they are steadfast ; when he fought 
battles at school those eyes looked like winning ; his chin is 
strong and square; his lips are firm. Only to look upon him 
as he passed, you would say that you had seen a strong man 
in his youth. People turned their heads after he had gone 
by to have another look at such a handsome boy. 

He leans his back, now, against the gun, his hands resting 
lightly upon the carriage on either side, as if to be ready for 
immediate action ; his straw hat lies on the grass beside him. 
And he is looking in the face of the girl. 

She is a mere child of thirteen or fourteen, standing before 
him and gazing into his face with sad and solemn eyes, 


16 


CELIACS ARBOUB. 


She, too, is bareheaded, carrying her summer hat by the 
ribbons. I suppose no girl of fourteen, when girls are bony, 
angular, and bigfooted^ can properly be described as beauti- 
ful; but Celia was always beautiful to me. Her face remains 
the same to me through the changes of many years — always 
lovely, always sweet and winsome. Her eyes were light blue, 
and yet not shallow ; she had a pair of mutinous little lips 
which were generally, but not to-night, laughing ; her hair 
hung over her shoulders in the long and unfettered tresses 
which so well become young maidens ; and in her cheek was 
the prettiest little dimple ever seen. But now she looked 
sad, and tears were gathered in her eyes. 

As for me, I was lying on the parapet of the wall, looking 
at the other two. Perhaps it will save trouble if I state at 
once who I was, and what to look upon. In the year 1853 
I was sixteen years of age, about two years older than Celia, 
nearly two years younger than Leonard. I believe I had 
already arrived at my present tall stature, which is exactly 
five feet one inch. I am a hunchback. An accident in in- 
fancy rounded my shoulders and arched my back, giving me 
a projection which causes my coats to hang loosely where 
other men’s fit tight, forcing my neck forward so that my 
head bends back where other people’s heads are held straight 
upon their necks. It was an unfortunate accident, because 
I should, but for it, have grown into a strong man ; my limbs 
are stout and my arms are muscular. It cost me nothing as 
a boy to climb up ropes and posts, to clamber hand over hand 
along a rail, to get up into trees, to do anything where I 
could get hold for a single hand or for a single foot. I was 
not — through my unlucky back, the distortion of my neck, 
and the length of my arm — comely to look upon. All the 
years of my childhood, and some a good deal later, were 
spent in the miserable effort to bring home to myself the 
plain fact that I was disgracU. The comeliness of youth and 
manhood could be no more mine than my father’s broad 
lands; for, besides being a hunchback, I was an exile, a 
Pole, the son of a Polish rebel, and therefore penniless. 
My name is Ladislas Pulaski. 


11 


ON THE QUEEN’S BASTION. 

We were standing, as I said, in the north-west corner of 
the Queen's Bastion, the spot where the grass was longest 
and greenest, the wild convolvulus most abundant, and where 
the noblest of the great elms which stood upon the ramparts 
— to catch the enemy's shells," said Leonard — threw out a 
gracious arm laden with leafy foliage to give a shade. We 
called the place Celia’s Arbour. 

If you looked out over the parapet, you saw before you 
the whole of the most magnificent harbour in the world ; 
and if you looked through the embrasure of the wall, you 
had a splendid framed picture — water for foreground, old 
ruined castle in middle distance, blue hill beyond, and above 
blue sky. 

We were all three silent, because it was Leonard's last 
evening with us. He was going away, our companion and 
brother, and we were there to bid him God speed. 

It was after eight ; suddenly the sun, which a moment 
before was a great disc of burnished gold, sank below the 
thin line of land between sky and sea. 

Tlien the evening gun from the Duke of York’s bastion 
proclaimed the death of another day with a loud report, 
which made the branches in the trees above us to shake and 
tremble. And from the barracks in the town; from the 
Harbour Admiral’s flagship; from the Port Admiral’s flag- 
ship ; from the flagship of the Admiral in command of the 
Mediterranean Fleet, then in harbour; from the tower of 
the old church, there came such a flring of muskets, such a 
beating of drums, playing of fifes, ringing of bells, and 
sounding of trumpets, that you would hav<^ thought the sun 
was setting once for all, and receiving his farewell salute from 
a world he was leaving for ever to roll about in darkness. 

The evening gun and the tintamarre that followed roused 
us all three, and we involuntarily turned to look across the 
parapet. Beyond that was the moat, and beyond the moat 
was a ravelin, and beyond the ravelin the sea-wall ; beyond 
the wall a smooth and placid lake, for it was high tide, four 
miles long and a couple of miles wide, in which the splendour 
of the west was reflected so that it looked like a furnace of 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


molten metal. At low tide it would Rave been a great flat 
level of black mud, unlovely even with an evening sky upon 
it, intersected with creeks and streams which, I suppose, 
were kept full of water by the drainage of the mud-banks. 

At the end of the harbour stood the old ruined castle, on 
the very margin and verge of the water. The walls were 
reflected in the calm bosom of the lagoon ; the water gate 
opened out upon wavelets of the lapping tide ; behind rose 
the great donjon, square, grey, and massive ; in the tourney- 
yard stood the old church, and we needed no telling to make 
us think of the walls behind, four feet broad, rugged and 
worn by the tooth of Time, thickly blossoming with gilly- 
flowers, clutched and held on all sides by the tight embrace 
of the ivy. There had been rain in the afternoon, so that 
the air was clear and transparent, and you could see every 
stone in the grand old keep, every dentation of the wall. 

Behind the castle lay the low curved line of a long hill, 
green and grassy, which made a background to the harbour 
and the old fortress. It stretched for six miles, this hill, 
and might have been monotonous but for the chalk quarries 
which studded its side with frequent intervals of white. 
Farther on, to the west, there lay a village, buried in a great 
clump of trees, so that you could see nothing but the tower 
of a church and the occasional smoke of a chimney. The 
village was so far off, that it seemed like some outlying fort, 
an advance work of civilisation, an outpost such as those 
which the Eoman conquerors have left in the desert. When 
your eye left the village among the trees and travelled 
southwards, you could see very little of land on the other 
side by reason of the ships which intervened — ships of every 
age, of every class, of every colour, of every build ; frigates, 
three-deckers, brigs, schooners, cutters, launches, gunboats, 
paddle-wheel steamers, screw steamers, hulks so old as to be 
almost shapeless — they were lying ranged in line, or they 
were moored separately ; some in the full flood of the waning 
sunset, some in shadow, one behind the other, making deep 
blacknesses in the golden water. There was not much life 
at this late hour in the harbour. Here and there a boat 


ON THE QUEEN’S BASTION. 


ti 


pulled by two or three lads from the town ; here and there 
a great ship’s gig, moving heavily through the water, pulled 
by a crew of sailors, rowing with their slow and measured 
stroke, and the little middy sitting in the stern ; or perhaps 
a wherry coming down from Fareham Creek. But mostly 
the harbour was silent, the bustle even at the low end having 
ceased with the sunset. 

What do you see up the harbour, Leonard ? ” asked 
the girl, for all of us were gazing silently at the glorious 
sight. 

I am looking for my future, Cis, and I cannot make it 
out.” 

Tell us what you think, Leonard.” 

Five minutes ago it looked splendid. But the glory is 
going off the water. See, Cis, the castle has disappeared — 
there is nothing to be made out there but a low black mass 
of shade; and the ships are so many black logs lying on 
grey water that in ten minutes will be black too. Nothing 
but blackness. Is that my future ? ” 

I can read you a better fortune out of the sunset than 
that,” I interposed. 

“ Do, Laddy,” said Celia. Don’t let poor Leonard go 
away with a bad omen.” 

‘‘If you look above you, Leonard,” I went on, ‘‘you will 
see that all the splendours of the earth have gone up into 
the heavens. Look at the brightness there. Was there 
e\er a more glorious sunset? There is a streak of colour 
for you ! — the one above the belt of salmon — ^blue, with just 
a suspicion on the far edge of green. Leonard, if you 
believed in visions, and wished for the best possible, you 
could have nothing better than that before you. If your 
dreams were to get money and rubbish like that ” — it will be 
remembered that I who enunciated this sentiment, and Celia 
who clapped her hands, and Leonard who nodded gravely, 
were all three very young — “ such rubbish, it would lead 
you to disappointment, just as the golden water is turning 
black. But up above the colours are brighter, and they are 
Isating ; they never fade.” 


CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


14 

They are fading now, Laddy.” 

‘^Nonsense. Snnsets never fade. They are for ever 
moving westwards round the world. Don’t you know that 
there is always sunset going on somewhere ? Gold in even- 
ing clouds for us to see, and a golden sunrise for some 
others. So, Leonard, when your dreams of the future were 
finished you looked up, and you saw the sky brighter than 
the harbour. That means that the future will be brighter 
than you ever dreamed.” 

Leonard laughed. 

‘‘You agree with Laddy, Cis ? Of course you do. As if 
you two ever disagreed yet ! ” 

“ I must go home, Leonard ; it is nearly nine. And, oh ! 
you are going away to-night, and when — when shall we see 
you again ? ” 

“I am going away tb-night, Cis. I have said good-bye 
to the Captain, God bless him, and I am going to London by 
the ten o’clock train to seek my fortune.” 

“But you will write to us, Leonard, won’t you? You 
will tell us what you are doing, and where you are, and all 
about yourself.” 

He shook his head. 

“No, Gis, not even that. Listen. I have talked it all 
over with the Captain. I am going to make my fortune — 
somehow. I don’t know how, nor does he, the dear old man. 
But I am going to try. Perhaps I shall fail, perhaps I shall 
succeed. I must succeed.” His face grew stern and a little 
hard. “ Because everything depends upon it, whether I 
shall be a gentleman, or what a gutter child ought to 
expect.” 

“ Don’t, Leonard.” 

“Forgive me, Laddy, but everybody knows that you are 
a gentleman by birth and descent, and very few know that 
I am too. Give me five years. In five years’ time, if I live, 
and unless it is absolutely impossible for me to get home, I 
promise to meet you both again. It will be June the 21st in 
the year 1858. We will meet at this time — sunset — and on 
this same spot, by Celia’s Arbour.” 


ON THE QUEEN’S BASTION. 


IS 

“ In five years. It is half a lifetime. What will have 
happened to ns all in five years? But not a single letter? 

0 Leonard, promise to write one letter, only one, during all 
the years, to say that you are well. Not leave us all the 
time without a single word.” 

He shook his head. 

Not one, Ois, my child. I am not going to write you a 
single letter. One only thing I have promised the Captain. 
If I am in danger, sickness, or any trouble, I am to write to him. 
But if you get no news of me set it down to good news.” 

Then, if you will not write, there is nothing to look 
forward to but the end of the five years. Laddy, don’t you 
feel as if you were a convict beginning a five years’ sentence ? 

1 do, and perhaps you will forget all about us, Leonard, when 
you are away over there, in the great world.” 

Forget you. Cissy ? ” He took her hands, and drew the 
girl to himself. “ Forget you? Why, there is nothing else 
in all the world for me to remember except you, and Laddy, 
and the Captain. If I could forget the seventeen years of 
my life, the town, and the port, the ships, and the sailors, 
the old walls, and the bastions — if I could rid ray memory 
of all that is in it now, why — then, perhaps, I could forget 
little Cissy. Other men belong to families. I have none. 
Other men have brothers and sisters. I have none. Laddy 
is my brother, and you are my sister. Never think, Cis, 
that I can forget you for one moment.” 

‘‘ No, Leonard, we will try to feel always that you are 
thinking about us. The Captain says nothing is better for 
people than always to remember what others would like 
them to say, and think, and do. Stay, Leonard.” She had 
made a little bouquet of daisies and the sweet wild convol- 
vulus which spread itself over all the slopes of the walls. 
Out of this she picked two or three blossoms, tied them up 
with a tendril, and laid them in a paper. That is my 
French exercise for to-morrow. Never mind. There, Leonard, 
carry that away with you, to remember me by.” 

“ I will take it, Cis, but I want nothing to remember 
you by.” 


i6 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


“ And now, Leonard, make your promise over again. Say 

after me, ^ in live years’ time ’ ” 

In five years’ time ” 

“ ‘ In rags or in velvet ’ — be very particular about that, 
Leonard ; you are neither to be too proud to come nor too 
ashamed, in rags or in velvet.” 

‘‘ In rags or in velvet.” 

‘ In poverty or in riches.’ ” 

In poverty or in riches.” 

“ ^ In honour or ’ no, there can be no dishonour — * in 

honour or before the honour has been reached, I will return.’ ” 

‘‘ I will return,” echoed Leonard. 

And we will meet you here, Laddy and I.” 

He held her hands while she dictated the words of this 
solemn promise, looking up at him with earnest and plead- 
ing face. 

Then the church clock struck nine, and from the Port 
Admiral’s fiagship boomed a solitary gun, which rolled in 
short, sharp echoes along the walls, and then slowly thun- 
dered up the shores of the harbour. Then there was a pause. 
And then the bells began their customary evening hymn. 
They struck the notes slowly, and as if with effort. But the 
hymn-tune was soft and sad, and a carillon is always sweet. 
That finished, there came the curfew bell, which has been 
rung every night in the old town since the time of the great 
Norman king. The day was quite done now, and the twilight 
of the summer night was upon us. Gleams of grey lay in 
the west refiected in the untroubled sheet of the harbour, the 
cloudless sky looked almost as blue as in the day, and the 
stars were faint and pale. Venus alone shone brightly ; the 
trees, in the warm, calm night, looked as if they were sleep- 
ing, all but one — a great elm which stood at the end of the 
wall, where it joined the dockyard. It was shaped in the 
black profile of the evening something like the face of a 
man, so that it stood like a giant sentry looking every night 
across the harbour. 

I must go,” said Celia. ‘‘ Good-bye, Leonard. Good- 
bye, dear Leonard. Forgive me if I have teased you. We 


ON THE QUEEN’S BASTION. 


17 


Bhall look forward — Oh ! how eagerly we shall look forward 
to the end of the five years. Good-bye.’^ 

He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and again. 
She cried and sobbed. Then he let her go, and without a 
word she fied from us both, fiying down the grassy slope 
across the green. In the twilight we could catch the glimmer 
of her white dress as she ran home, until she reached her 
father’s garden gate, and was lost. 

‘‘ Walk with me to the station, Laddy,” said Leonard. 

We walked away from the quiet walls where there was no 
one but ourselves, out from the shadow of the big elms, and 
the breath of dewy grass, and the peacefulness of the broad 
waters, down into the busy streets. Our way lay through 
the narrowest and the noisiest. Shops were open, especially 
places which sold things to eat and to drink. Hundreds of 
men — chiefiy young men — were loafing about, pipes in their 
mouths, among the women, who were buying in a street 
market, consisting almost entirely of costers’ carts and 
barrows, and where the principal articles exposed for sale 
appeared to be hot cooked things of pungent and appetising 
odour, served and dressed with fried onions. Every night, 
all the year round, that market went on; every night that 
incense of fried onions arose to the much-enduring skies ; 
every night the crowd jostled, pushed, and enjoyed their 
jokes around these barrows, lit by candles stuck in bottles, 
protected by oiled paper. 

‘‘Look at them,” said Leonard, indicating a little knot 
of young fellows laughing together at each other s gros mots. 
“ Look at them. If it had not been for the Captain I might 
have been like them.” 

“ So might I, for that matter.” 

“ What a life ! No ambition ! No hope to get beyond 
the pipe and beer ! If I fail it will be better than never to 
have tried. Laddy, I mean to make a spoon or spoil a horn, 
as the Scotch say.” 

“ How, Leonard.” 

“ I do not know quite. Somehow, Laddy. Here we are 
at the station. You will be good to the old man, won’t you ? 

£ 


i8 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


Of course you will, Laddy, a great deal better than I could 
ever be, because you are so much more considerate. Keep 
up his spirits, make him spin yarns. And you will look 
sharp after the little girl, Laddy. She is your great charge. 
I give her into your keeping. Why, when I come back she 
will be nineteen, and I shall be four-and- twenty. Think of 
that. Laddy, before I go I am going to tell you a great 
secret. Keep it entirely to yourself. Let no one hear a 
word of it, not even the Captain.” 

“ Not even Cis ? ” 

“ Why, that would spoil all. Listen. If I come back in 
five years’ time, a gentleman, a real gentleman by position 
as I am by birth, I mean to — to ask little Celia to marry 
me.” 

I laughed. 

How do you know you will care for her then ? ” 

“ I know that very well,” he replied. I shall never care 
in the same way for any other girl. That is quite certain. 
But oh, what a slender chance it is! I am to make myself 
a gentleman in five years. Celia has got to get through 
these five years without falling in love with anybody else. 
Of course all the fellows in the place will be after her. And 
I have got to please her when I do come back. Wish me 
luck, Laddy, and good-bye, and God bless you all three.” 

He squeezed my hand, and rushed into a carriage as the 
engine whistled, th^ bell rang, and the train moved away. 
Then I realised that Leonard was really gone, and that we 
should not see him again for five long years. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE CAPTAIN. 

I WALKED home sadly enough, thinking how dull life for 
the next five years was going to be. It was half-past 
ten when I arrived, but the Captain was sitting up beyond 
his usual hour, waiting to hear the last news of Leonard. 
He was at the open window overlooking his garden ; before 


THE CAPTAIN. 


19 


him stood his glass of grog, empty, and his evening pipe 
was finished. 

You saw him off, Laddy ? ” he asked with a little eager- 
ness, as if Leonard might possibly be lurking in the hall. 

You are quite sure he got safely into the train” — five-and- 
twenty years ago people were not so familiar with railway 
trains, and they were generally regarded, even by old sailors, 
as things uncertain about going oflP, as well as untrustworthy 
when you were in them. Poor lad ! At Winchester by this 
time, very nearly. Thirty miles from salt water.” 

The Captain at this time was about sixty years of age. 
He was a man of short and sturdy build, with a broad and 
rosy face like an apple, and perfectly white hair. His 
whiskers, equally white, were cut to the old-fashioned regu- 
lation mutton-chop,” very much like what has now come 
into fashion again. They advanced into the middle of the 
cheek, and were then squared off in a line which met the 
large stiff collar below at an angle of forty-five. Bound the 
collar the Captain wore a white cravat, which put on many 
folds as the weather grew cold. He never appeared except 
in some sort of uniform, and paraded his profession habitually, 
as was the custom among sailors of his standing, by a blue 
frock with anchor buttons. In winter, he wore loose blue 
trousers, which, when the warmer days returned, he ex- 
changed for white ducks. Upstairs he kept a uniform of 
surpassing splendour, with epaulettes, sword-belt, sword, 
gold lace, and an innumerable number of buttons. But this 
was reserved for ceremonies, as when a ship was launched, 
or when the Port Admiral invited the Captain to dinner, or 
when the Queen visited the Yard. On all other occasions, 
the blue frock with brass buttons formed the Captain’s only 
wear. 

He had great white beetling eyebrows, which would have 
lent him a ferocious aspect but for the twinkling blue eyes 
beneath them. There were crows’-feet lying thick about 
those eyes, which gave them a curiously humorous look, not 
belied by the mobile lips below. 

You might see, by the light of the single pair of candles, 


20 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


that it was a plainly furnished room, having in it little 
besides a small square table, a horsehair sofa, a wooden arm- 
chair, a bookshelf with a hundred volumes or so, most of them 
boys’ school books, and a piano which was mine, given me 
by Mr. Tyrrell. The walls were decorated with pictures of 
naval engagements and ships, cut out of illustrated papers, 
or picked up at second-hand shops, mounted and framed by 
the Captain himself. Above the mantelshelf was a print of 
the Battle of Navarino, showing the Asia engaged with two 
Egyptian and Turkish men-of-war, one on each side of her, 
the rest of the action being invisible by reason of the smoke. 
The Captain would contemplate that picture with a satisfac- 
tion quite beyond the power of words. 

“ Twas in ’27,” he would say ; I was Lieutenant then : 
Sir Edward Codrington was Admiral. We sailed into 
Naverino harbour ar 2 P.M. after dinner. Gad ! it was a 
warm afternoon we had, and lucky it was the lads dined 
before it. Something to remember afterwards. Don’t tell 
me that Turks can’t fight. A better fight was never made 
even by the French in the old days. But their ships, of 
course, were not handled like ours, and out of eighty odd 
craft, which made up their fleet, we didn’t leave a dozen fit 
for sea again.” 

And on the mantelshelf was a model, made by the Captain, 
of the Asia herself. 

The piano, I explained above, was my own. Everything 
else I had in the world came from the Captain ; the clothes I 
wore were bought by him ; it was he who brought me up, 
educated me, and lifted me out of the mire. I am bankrupt 
in gratitude to the Captain. I have no words to say what 
I owe to him. I can never repay, by any words, acts, or 
prayers, the load of obligation under which I rejoice to be 
towards that good man. 

It began, his incomparable benevolence to Leonard and 
to me, like a good many other important things, with a 
crime. Not a very great crime ; nor was the criminal a very 
important person ; but, as the Rev. Mr. Pontifex once said 
of it, it was emphatically a wrong thing, and, like all wrong 


THE CAPTAIN. 


21 


things, ought to be remembered with repentance. Mr. 
Pontifex, although he had never had the opportunity of 
reading a certain great Bishop’s Treaties on tho Sinfulness 
of Little Sins, was as uncompromising as that Prelate could 
wish, and I hope that Leonard, who was the criminal, has 
long since repented. Certainly it was the infraction of a 
commandment. Now Mr. Pontifex has repeatedly asserted, 
and his wife approved, that he who breaks one command- 
ment breaks all. This is what was done. 

The Captain’s house, one of a row, stood separated from 
the street by the respectability of three feet clear and an iron 
railing. It was close to St. Faith’s Square, a fashionable 
and almost aristocratic quarter, inhabited by retired naval 
officers, a few men who had made fortunes in business and a 
sprinkling of lawyers. It was a plain square red-brick 
house, with nothiug remarkable about it but the garden at 
the back. This was not a large garden, and, like others in 
the old town, was originally intended as a drying ground — 
all builders in those days were accustomed to consider a 
house as, in the first instance, a family laundry. The garden 
was planted with raspberry canes, gooseberry bushes, and 
currant-trees. Peaches and plums were trained along the 
walls. There were one or two small pear-trees, and there 
was a very fine mulberry. In the spaces the Captain 
cultivated onions, radishes, and lettuce with great success. 
But the garden was remarkable in having no back wall. It 
looked out upon the Mill-dam, an artificial lake designed, I 
believe, to flood the moats of the fortifications if necessary. 
Projecting iron spikes prevented the neighbours on either 
hand from invading our territory, and you could sit on the 
stone-work at the end of the wall with your feet dangling 
over the water. It was a broad sheet periodically lowered 
and raised by the tide, which rushed in and ran out by a 
passage under the roadway, close to which was the King’s 
Mill, worked by the tide. Sitting in the garden you could 
hear the steady grinding noise of the mill-wheels. The Mill- 
dam was not without its charm. In the centre stood an 
island redoubt, set with trees like the walls, and connected 


22 


BY CELIACS ARBOUK. 


with the road which crossed the water by a light iron bridge. 
There was a single-storied house upon that island, and I 
remember thinking that it must be the grandest thing in 
the world to live upon it, all alone, or perhaps with Celia, 
to have a cask of provisions and absolute liberty to wander 
round and round the grassy fort, particularly if the iron 
bridge could be knocked away, and a boat substituted. 

They have filled up the Mill-dam now ; pulled down the 
King’s Mill ; destroyed the redoubt; and replaced the bright, 
sparkling sheet of water with an open field, on which they 
have made a military hospital. The garden at the back of 
the house has got a wall too, now. But I wish they had let 
the old things remain as they were. 

It was in this garden that the Captain was accustomed to 
sit after dinner, except when the weather was too cold. 
One day, nine or ten years before my story begins, he 
repaired thither on a certain sultry day in August at half- 
past two in the afternoon. He had with him a long pipe 
and a newspaper. He placed his arm-chair under the shade 
of the mulberry-tree, then rich with ripe purple fruit, and 
sat down to read at ease. Whether it was the languor of 
the day, or the mild influence of the mill hard by, or the 
effects of the pipe, is not to be rashly decided, but the Captain 
presently exchanged the wooden chair for the grass under 
the mulberry-tree, upon which, mindful of his white ducks 
and the fallen fruit, he spread a rug, and then leaning back 
against the trunk, which was sloped by Nature for this very 
purpose, he gazed for a few moments upon the dazzling surface 
of the Mill-dam, and then fell fast asleep. 

Now, at very low tides the water in the Mill-dam would 
run out so far as to leave a narrow belt of dry shingle under 
the stone wall, and that happened on this very afternoon. 
Presently there came creeping along this little beach, all 
alone, with curious and wondering eyes, which found some- 
thing to admire in every pebble, a little boy of eight. He 
was bare-footed and bare-headed, a veritable little gutter boy, 
clad almost in rags. It was a long way round the lake from 
the only place where he could have got down, a good quarter 


THE CAPTAIN. 


23 


of a mile at least, and lie stopped at the bottom of the 
Captain’s garden for two excellent reasons : one that he felt 
tired and thirsty, and the other that the tide was already 
racing in through the mill like the rapids of Niagara, that 
it already covered the beach in front and behind, and was 
advancing with mighty strides over the little strip on which 
he stood. And it occurred to that lonely little traveller that 
unless he could get out of the mess, something dreadful 
in the shape of wet feet and subsequent drowning would 
happen to him. 

He was a little frightened at the prospect, and began to 
cry gently. But he was not a foolish child, and he reflected 
immediately that crying was no good. So he looked at the 
wall behind him. It was a sea wall with a little slope, only 
about five feet high, and built with rough stones irregularly 
dressed, so as to afford foot and hand hold for anybody who 
wished to climb up or down. In two minutes the young 
mountaineer had climbed the dizzy height and stood upon 
the stone coping, looking back to the place he had come 
from. Below him the water was flowing where he had stood 
just now; and turning round he found himself in a garden 
with some one, a gentleman in white trousers, white waistcoat, 
and white hair, with a blue coat, sitting in the shade. His 
jolly red face was lying sideways, lovingly against the tree, 
his cap on the grass beside him ; his mouth was half open ; 
his eyes were closed ; while a soft melodious snore, like the 
contented hymn of some aesthetic pigling, proclaimed aloud 
to the young observer that the Captain was asleep. 

The boy advanced towards the sleeping stranger in a 
manner common to one of tender age, that is, on all fours, 
giving action to his hands and arms in imitation of an 
imaginary wild beast. He crept thus, first to the right side, 
then to the left, and then between the wide-spread legs of 
the Captain, peering into his unconscious face. Then he 
suddenly became conscious that he was under a mulberry- 
tree, that the fruit was ripe, that a chair was standing con- 
venient for one who might wish to help himself, and that 
one branch lower than the rest hung immediately over the 


24 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


chair, so that even a child might reach out his hand and 
gather the fruit. 

This was the Wrong Thing lamented by the Rev. Mr. 
Pontifex. The unprincipled young robber, after quite realis- 
ing the position of things — strange garden — gentleman of 
marine calling sound asleep — ripe fruit — present thirst — • 
overwhelming curiosity to ascertain if this kind of fruit 
resembled apples — yielded without resistance to temptation, 
and mounted the chair. 

Five minutes later, the Captain lazily opened his eyes. 

Boom — boom — boom — the mill was going with redoubled 
vigour, for the tide had turned since he fell asleep, and was 
now rushing through the dark subterranean avenues with a 
mighty roar. But except for the tide and the mill every- 
thing was very quiet. Accustomed noises do not keep 
people awake. Thus in the next garden but one two 
brothers were fighting, but as this happened every day, and 
all day, it did not disturb the Captain. One was worsted 
in the encounter. He ran away and got into some upper 
chamber, from the window of which he yelled in a hoarse 
stammer to his victorious brother, who was red-haired, 
‘‘ J — J — Jack — you’re a c — c — c — carrotty thief.” But 
invective of this kind, not addressed to himself, only gently 
tickled the Captain’s tympanum. The sun was still very 
bright, the air was balmy, and I think he would have fallen 
asleep again but for one thing. A strange sound smote his 
ears. It was a sound like unto the smacking of tongues and 
the sucking of lips ; or like the pleased champing of gratified 
teeth ; a soft and gurgling sound ; with, unless the Captain’s 
ears greatly deceived him, a low breathing of great content- 
ment. He listened lazily, wondering what this sound might 
mean. While he listened, a mulberry fell upon his nose 
and bounded off, making four distinct leaps from nose to 
shirt-front, from shirt-front to white waistcoat, from waist- 
coat to ducks, and from ducks to the rug. That was nothing 
remarkable. Mulberries will fall when over-ripe, and the 
Captain had swept away a basketful that day before dinner. 
So he did not move, but listened still. The noises were 


THE CAPTAIN. 


2S 


accompanied by a little frou-frou^ which seemed to betoken 
something human. But the Captain was still far from being 
broad awake, and so he continued to wonder lazily. Then 
another mulberry fell ; then half-a-dozen, full on his waist- 
coat, cannoning in all directions to the utter ruin of his 
white garments ; and a low childish laugh burst forth close 
to him, and the Captain sprang to his feet. 

To his amazement there stood on the chair before him 
a ragged little boy, barefoot and bareheaded, his face purple 
with mulberry juice, his mouth crammed with fruit, his 
fingers stained, his ragged clothes smirched ; even his 
little feet, so dusty and dirty, standing in a pool of mulberry 
juice. 

The Captain was a bachelor and a sailor, and on both 
grounds fond of children. Now, the face of the child before 
him, so bonny, so saucy, so full of glee and confidence, went 
straight to his heart, and he laughed a welcome and patted 
the boy’s cheek. 

But the fact itself was remarkable. Where had the child 
come from ? Not through the front door, which was closed ; 
nor over the wall, which was impossible. 

‘‘How the dickens ” the Captain began. “I beg 

your pardon, my lad, for swearing, which is a bad habit ; but 
how did you get here ? ” 

The boy pointed to the wall and the water. 

“ Oh ! ” said the Captain doubtfully. “ Swam, did you ? 
Now, that’s odd. IVe seen them half your size in the Pacific 
swim like fishes, but I never heard of an English boy doing 
it before. Where do you live, boy ? ” 

The child looked interrogative. 

“ Where’s daddy ? Gone to sea, belike, as a good sailor 
should?” 

But the boy shook his head. 

“ Daddy’s dead, I suppose. Drowned, likely, as many a 
good sailor is. Where’s your mammy ? ” 

The boy looked a little frightened at these questions, to 
which he could evidently give no satisfactory reply. 

“The line’s pretty nigh paid out,” said the Captain 3 “but 


26 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


we’ll try once more. Who takes care of you, boy — finds you 
in rations, and serves out the rope’s end ? ” 

This time the boy began to understand a little. 

Then the Captain put on his hat and led him by the hand 
to the quartier where the sailors’ wives did mostly congre- 
gate. In this he was guided by the fine instinct of experi- 
ence, because he felt^ in spite of the rags, that the boy had 
been dressed by a sailor’s wife. None but such a woman 
could give a sea-going air to two garments so simple as those 
which kept the weather from the boy. 

He led the child by the hand till presently the child led 
him, and piloted the Captain safely to a house where a 
woman — it was Mrs. Jeram — came running out, crying 
shrilly — 

“ Lenny ! why, wherever have you bin and got to ? ” 

There was another ragged little boy with a round back, 
five or six years old, sitting on the door-step. When the 
Captain had finished his talk with Mrs. Jeram, he came out 
and noticed that other boy, and then he returned and had 
more talk. 

CHAPTER III. 

VICTORY ROW. 

M rs. jeram was a weekly tenant in one of a row of 
small four-roomed houses known as Victory Row, 
which led out of Nelson Street, and was a broad blind court, 
bounded on one side and at the end by the Dockyard wall. 
It was not a dirty and confined court, but quite the reverse, 
being large, clean, and a very Cathedral close for quietness. 
The wall, built of a warm red brick, had a broad and sloping 
top, on which grew wallflowers, long grasses, and stonecrop ; 
overhanging the wall was a row of great elms, in the branches 
of which there was a rookery, so that all day long you could 
listen, if you wished, to the talk of the rooks. Now, this is 
never querulous, angry, or argumentative, 'the rook does 
not combat an adversary’s opinion: he merely states his 
own ; if the other one does not agree with him he states it 


VICTOEY RO^Y. 


27 


again, but without temper. If you watch them and listen, 
you will come to the conclusion that they are not theorists, 
like poor humans, but simply investigators of fact. It has 
a restful sound, the talk of rooks ; you listen in the early 
morning, and they assist your sleeping half-dream without 
waking you ; or in the evening they carry your imagination 
away to woods and sweet country glades. They have cut 
down the elms now, and driven the rooks to find another 
shelter. Very likely, in their desire to sweep away every- 
thing that is pretty, they have torn the wallflowers and 
grasses off the wall as well. And if these are gone, no doubt 
Victory Row has lost its only charm. If I were to visit it 
now, I should probably find it squalid and mean. The eating 
of the tree of knowledge so often makes things that once we 
loved look squalid. 

But to childhood nothing is unlovely in which the imagina- 
tion can light upon something to feed it. It is the blessed 
province of all children, high and low, to find themselves at 
the gates of Paradise; and quite certainly Tom the Piper’s 
son, sitting under a hedge with a raw potato for plaything, 
is every bit as happy as a little Prince of Wales. The 
possibilities of the world which opens out before us are 
infinite ; while the glories of the world we have left behind 
are still clinging to the brain, and shed a supernatural 
colouring on everything. At six, it is enough to live; to 
awake in the morning to the joy of another day; to eat, 
sleep, play, and wonder ; to revel in the vanities of childhood ; 
to wanton in make-belief superiority ; to admire the deeds 
of bigger children ; to emulate them, like Icarus : and too 
often, like that greatly daring youth, to fall. 

Try to remember, if you can, something of the mental 
attitude of childhood ; recall, if you may, some of the long 
thoughts of early days.. To begin with — God was quite close 
to you, up among the stars ; He was seated somewhere, 
ready to give j^ou whatever you wanted ; everybody was a 
friend, and everybody was occupied all day long about your 
personal concerns ; you had not yet arrived at the boyishness 
of forming plans for the future. You were still engaged iu 


28 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


imitating, exercising, wondering. Every man was a demi- 
god — you had not yet arrived at the consciousness that you 
might become yourself a man ; the resources of a woman — 
to whom belong bread, butter, sugar, cake, and jam — were 
unbounded ; everything that you saw was full of strange and 
mysterious interest. You had not yet learned to sneer, to 
criticise, to compare, and to down-cry. 

Mrs. Jeram’s house, therefore, in my eyes, contained 
everything that heart of man could crave for. The green- 
painted door opened into a room which was at once recep- 
tion-room, dining-room, and kitchen ; furnished, too, though 
that I did not know, in anticipation of the present fashion, 
having plates of blue and white china stuck round the walls. 
The walls were built of that warm red brick which time 
covers with a coating of grey-like moss. You find it every- 
where among the old houses of the south of England ; but 
I suppose the clay is all used up, because I see none of it in 
the new houses. 

We were quite respectable people in Victory Row ; of that 
I am quite sure, because Mrs. Jeram would have made the 
place much too lively, by the power and persistence of her 
tongue, for other than respectable people. We were sea- 
faring folk, of course ; and in every house was something 
strange from foreign parts. To this day I never see anything 
new in London shops or in museums without a backward 
rush of associations which lands me once more in Victory 
Row ; for the sailors’ wives had all these things long ago, 
before inland people ever heard of them. There were 
Japanese cabinets, picked up in Chinese ports, long before 
Japan was open ; there was curious carved wood and ivory 
work from Canton. These things were got during the 
Chinese war. And there was a public-house in a street hard 
by which was decorated, instead of with a red window-blind, 
like other such establishments, with a splendid picture 
representing some of the episodes in that struggle : all the 
Chinese were running away in a disgraceful stampede, while 
Jack Tar, running after them, caught hold of their pig-tails 
with the left hand, and deftly cut off their heads with the 


VICTOKY EOW. 


29 


right, administering at the same time a frolicsome kick. 
John Chinaman’s legs were generally both off the ground 
together, such was his fear. Then there were carved ostrich 
eggs; wonderful things from the Brazils in feathers; frail 
delicacies in coral from the Philippines, known as Venus’s 
flower -baskets ; grewsome- looking cases from the West 
Indies, containing centipedes, scorpions, beetles, and taran- 
tulas ; small turtle shells, dried flying flsh^ which came out 
in moist exudations during wet weather, and smelt like 
haddock ; shells of all kinds, big and little; clubs, tomahawks, 
and other queer weapons, carved in wood, from the Pacific ; 
stuffed humming-birds, and birds of Paradise. There were 
live birds, too — avvadavats, Java sparrows, love-birds, 
parroquets, and parrots in plenty. There was one parrot, at 
the corner house, who affected the ways of one suffering from 
incurable consumption — he was considered intensely comic 
by children and persons of strong stomach and small 
imagination. There were parrots who came, stayed a little 
while, and then were taken away and sold, who spoke foreign 
tongues with amazing volubility, who swore worse than 
Gresset's Vert Vert, and who whistled as beautifully as a 
boatswain — the same airs, too. The specimens which 
belonged to Art or inanimate Nature were ranged upon a 
table at the window. They generally stood or were grouped 
around a large Bible, which it was a point of ceremonial to 
have in the house. The live birds were hung outside in 
sunny weather, all except the parrot with the perpetual cold, 
who walked up and down the court by himself and coughed. 
The streets surrounding us were, like our own, principally 
inhabited by mariners and their families, and presented 
similar characteristics ; so that one moved about in a great 
museum open for general inspection during daylight, and 
free for all the world. Certain I am that if all the rare 
and curious things displayed in these windows had been 
collected and preserved, the town would have had a most 
characteristic and remarkable museum of its own. 

Victory Row is the very earliest place that I remember. 
How I got there, the dangers to which I was exposed in 


30 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


infancy, the wild tragedy which robbed me of both parents — 
these things I was to learn later on, because I remembered 
nothing of them. I was in Mrs. Jeram’s house, with three 
other boys. There was Jem, the oldest. His surname was 
Hex, and as it was always pronounced without the aspirate, 
I thought, when I had learned the alphabet, that to be 
named after one of the letters was a singular distinction, and 
most enviable. Jem was a big boy, a good-natured, silent 
lad, who spent his whole time on the beach among the 
sailors. Moses came next. I never knew Moses surname. 
He was a surly and ill-conditioned boy. Leonard Copleston, 
the third, was my protector and my friend. The day, so far 
as I can recollect, always began with a fight between 
Leonard and Moses ; later on, towards dinner-time, there 
would be another fight ; and the evening never ended with- 
out one or two more fights. From my indistinct recollection 
of this period, I fancy that whenever Leonard and Moses 
came within a few yards of each other they as naturally 
rushed into battle as a Russian and a Turk. And the only 
good point about Moses was that he was always ready to 
renew the battle. For he hated Leonard ; I suppose because 
Leonard was as handsome, bright, and clever, as he was ugly, 
lowering, and stupid. 

Naturally, at the age of five one does not inquire into ante- 
cedents of people. So that it was much later when I learned 
the circumstances under which we four boys were collected 
beneath one roof. They were characteristic of the place. 
The paternal Moses, returning from a three years’ cruise in 
the Mediterranean, discovered that his wife, a lady of fickle 
disposition, had deserted. In other words, she was gone 
away, leaving a message for her husband to the effect that 
little Moses, the pledge of their affections, and his curious 
collection of china brought from foreign parts, would between 
them console him for her loss. So he put the boy under the 
charge of Mrs. Jeram, gave her a sum of money for the 
child’s maintenance until he came back again ; smashed the 
crockery in a rage; wept but little, if at all, for his ruined 
household gods ; went away, and never came back any more. 


VICTORY ROW. 


31 


Jem Hex, on the other hand, was the son of a real widower, 
also a Royal Navy man, and he was left with Mrs. Jeram to 
be taken care of under much the same circumstances, except 
that he was regularly paid for. As for Leonard, you will 
hear about him presently. In one respect he w^as worse off 
than any of us, because we had friends and he had none. 
There w^as, for instance, an aunt belonging to Moses who 
came to see him about once a month. In the course of the 
interview she always caned him. I do not know why; 
perhaps because she felt sure he deserved it, as he certainly 
did, perhaps because she thought it a thing due to her own 
dignity as the boy^s only relative. She wore a dress, the 
splendour of whose original black colour was marred by 
patches of brown stuff lying in the creases. She was a stiff 
and stately dame of forbidding appearance, and manners 
which were conventional. Thus, she always began the con- 
versation, before she caned Moses, by remarking, even in 
August, that the weather was ‘^raw.” The monthly caning 
was the only thing, I know now, that she ever contributed 
towards the maintenance and education of her nephew. 
Jem Hex had plenty of uncles and other relations. One was 
a harbour boatman, a jolly old man, who had been in the 
wars; one was a dockyard foreman, and one was a ship’s 
carpenter. They used to drop into Victory Row for a talk 
on Sunday afternoons when the weather was warm. I used 
to envy Jem his superior position in the world and his family 
connections. 

I had friends, too, in plenty, but they were of a different 
kind. Not rich to begin with — not holders of official rank, 
and unconnected in any way with the Royal Navy, and^ 
which stamped them at once as objects of pity and contempt, 
they were unable to speak the English tongue except with 
difficulty. They were big and bearded men ; they had scars 
on their faces, and went sometimes maim and halt ; they were 
truculent of aspect, but kindly of eye. When they came into 
our court they took me up gently, carried me about, kissed 
me, and generally brought me some little simple gift, such 
as an orange or an apple. 


32 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


Somehow or other I learned that these friends of mine 
were Poles, and that they had a great barrack all to them- 
selves, close to the walls, whither I used to be sometimes 
carried. It was a narrow building, built of black-tarred 
wood, with windows at both sides, so that you saw the light 
quite through the house. 

It stood just under the walls, almost in the shade of the 
great elms. Within it were upwards of a hundred Poles, 
living chiefly on the tenpence a day which the English 
Government allowed them for their support, with this barn- 
like structure to house them. They were desperately poor, 
all of them living mostly on bread and frugal cabbage-soup. 
Out of their poverty, out of their tenpence a day, some of 
these poor fellows found ipeans by clubbing together to pay 
Mrs. Jeram, week by week, for my support. They went 
hungry that I might eat and thrive ; they came every day, 
some of them, to see that I was well cared for. They took 
me to their barrack, and made me their pet and plaything; 
there was nothing they were not ready to do for me, because 
I was the child of Roman Pulaski and Claudia his wife. 

The one who came oftenest, stayed the longest, and seemed 
in an especial manner to be my guardian, was a man who 
was grey when I first remember him. He had long hair 
and a full grey beard. There was a great red gash in his 
cheek which turned white when he grew excited or was 
moved. He limped with one foot because some Russian 
musket-ball had struck him in the heel; and he had singu- 
larly deep- set eyes, with heavy eyebrows. I have never seen 
anything like the sorrowfulness of Wassielewski’s eyes. 
Other Poles had reason for sorrow. They were all exiles 
together ; they were separated from their families without a 
hope that the terrible Nicolas, who hated a rebel Pole with 
all the strength of his autocratic hatred, would ever let them 
return ; thi y were all in poverty ; but these men looked 
happy. Wassielewski alone never smiled, and carried always 
that low light of melancholy in his eyes, as if not only the 
past was sad, but the future was charged with more sorrow. 
On one day in the year he brought me immortelles, tied with 


VICTOEY EOW. 


33 


a black ribbon. He told me they were in memory of my 
father, Roman Pulaski now dead 'and in heaven, and of my 
mother, also dead, and now sitting among the saints and 
martyrs. I used to wonder at those times to see the eyes 
which rested on me so tenderly melt and fill with tears. 

Three or four days in the week, sometimes every day, Mrs. 
Jeram went out charing. As she frequently came home 
- bearing with her a scent of soapsuds, and having her hands 
creased and fingers supernaturally white, it is fair to suppose 
that she went out washing at eighteenpence a day. Some- 
thing, indeed, it was necessary to do, with four hungry boys 
to keep, only two of whom paid anything for their daily 
bread, and Mrs. Jeram — she was a hard-featured woman, 
with a resolute face — must have been possessed of more than 
the usual share of Christian charity to keep Moses in her 
house at all, even as a paying boarder, much less as one who 
ate and drank largely, and brought to the house nothing at 
all but discord and ill-temper. And besides the food to 
provide, with some kind of clothing, there was always 
‘‘ Tenderart,” who called every Monday morning. 

He was the owner of the houses in the Row, and he came 
for his rent. His name was Barnfather, and the appellation 
of Tenderart, a compound illustrating the law of phonetic 
decay, derived from the two words tender hearty was bestowed 
upon him by reason of the uncompromising hardness of 
heart, worse than that of any Pharaoh, with which he en- 
countered, as sometimes happened, any deficiency in the 
weekly rent. Behind him — the tool of his uncompromising 
rigour — walked a man with a blanket, a man whose face was 
wooden. If the rent was not paid that man opened his 
blanket, and wrapped it round some article of household 
furniture silently pointed out by Tenderart as an equivalent. 

My early childhood, spent among these kindly people, was 
thus very rich in the things which stimulate the imagination. 
Strange and rare objects in every house, in every street, 
something from far-off’ lands, talk to be heard of foreign ports 
and bygone battles, the poor Poles in their bare and gaunt 
barracks, and then the place itself. I have spoken of the 

o 


34 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


rookery beyond the flower-grown Dockyard wall. Bat beyond 
the rookery was the Dockyard itself, quiet and orderly, which 
I could see from the upper window of the house. There was 
the Long Eow, where resided the Heads of Departments; 
the Short Row, in which lived functionaries of lower rank — 
I believe the two Rows do not know each other in society ; 
there was the great Reservoir, supported on tall and spidery 
legs, beneath which stood piles of wood cut and dressed, and 
stacked for use ; there was the Rope Walk, a quarter of a 
mile long, in which I knew walked incessantly up and down 
the workmen who turned hanks of yarn into strong cables 
smelling of fresh tar ; there were the buildings where other 
workmen made blocks, bent beams, shaped all the parts of 
ships; there were the great places where they made and 
repaired machinery; there were the sheds themselves where 
the mighty ships grew slowly day by day, miracles of man’s 
constructive skill, in the dim twilight of their wooden cradles ; 
there was a pool of sea water, in which lay timber to be 
seasoned, and sometimes I saw boys paddling up and down 
in it ; there was always the busy crowd of oflScers and sailors 
going up and down, some of them god-like, with cocked hats, 
epaulettes, and swords. 

And, all day long, never ceasing, the busy sound of the 
Yard. To strangers and visitors it was just a confused and 
deafening noise. When you got to know it you distinguished 
half a dozen distinct sounds which made up that inharmoni- 
ous and yet not unpleasing whole. There was the chatter 
of the caulkers’ mallets, which never ceased their tap, tap, 
tap, until you got used to the regular beat, and felt it no 
more than you feel the beating of your pulse. But it was a 
main part of the noise which made the life of the Yard. 
Next to the multitudinous mallets of the caulkers, which 
were like the never-ceasing hum and whisper of insects on 
a hot day, came the loud clanging of the hammer from the 
boiler-makers’ shop. That might be likened, by a stretch of 
fancy, to the crowing of cocks in a farmyard. Then, all by 
itself, came a heavy thud which made the earth tremble, 
echoed all round, and silenced for a moment everything else. 


THIRTY YEARS AGO. 


35 


It came from the Nasmyth steam hammer; and always, 
running through all, and yet distinct, the r — r — — r of the 
machinery, like the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Of 
course I say nothing about salutes, because every day a salute 
of some kind was thundering and rolling about the air as the 
ships came and went, each as tenacious of her number of 
guns as an Indian Rajah. 

Beyond the Dockyard — you could not see it, but you felt 
it, and knew that it was there — was the broad blue lake of 
the harbour, crowded with old ships sacred to the memory 
of a hundred fights, lying in stately idleness, waiting for the 
fiat of some ignorant and meddling First Lord ordering them 
to be broken up. As if it were anything short of wicked- 
ness to break up any single ship which has fought the 
country’s battles and won her victories, until the tooth of 
time, aided by barnacles, shall have rendered it impossible 
for her to keep afloat any longer. 

When the last bell rang at six o’clock, and the workmen 
went away, all became quiet in the Dockyard. A great still- 
ness began suddenly, and reigned there till the morning, 
unbroken save by the rooks which cawed in the elms, and the 
clock wh ich struck the hours. And then one had to fall back 
on the less imaginative noises of Victory Row, where the 
parrot coughed, and the grass widows gathered together, 
talking and disputing in shrill concert, and Leonard fought 
Moses before going to bed, not without some din of battle. 


CHAPTER lY. 

THIRTY YEARS AGO. 

R ecollections of childhood are vague as a whole, but 
vivid in episodes. The days pass away, and leave no 
footprints on the sands, one being like another. And then 
one comes, bringing with it a trivial incident, which some- 
how catches hold of the childish imagination, and so lives 
for ever. There are two or three of these in my memory. 

It is a sunshiny day, and, as the rooks are cawing all day 


36 


BY CELLVS ARBOUR. 


in the elms, it must be spring. Sitting on the doorstep of 
Mrs. Jeram’s, I am only conscious of the harmonious blending 
of sounds from the Dockyard. Victory Row is quiet, save 
for the consumptive parrot who walks in the shade of the 
wall coughing heavily, as if it were one of his worst days, 
and he had got a bronchial asthma on the top of his other 
complaints. With me is Leonard, dancing on the pavement 
to no music at all but the beating of his pulse, enough for 
him. Jem and Moses are always on the beach. I suppose, 
but I am not certain, that it is afternoon. And the reason 
why I suppose so is that the Row is quiet. The morning 
was more noisy on account of the multifarious house duties 
which have to be got through. We hear a step which we 
know well, a heavy and limping step, which comes slowly 
along the pavement, and presently bears round the corner its 
owner, Wassielewski. Leonard stops dancing. Wassielewski 
pats his curly head. I hold up my arms : he catches me up 
and kisses me, while I bury my face in his big beard. Then 
he puts me down again, lays aside the violin which he carries 
in one hand (it is by this instrument that Wassielewski earns 
a handsome addition to the daily tenpence, and, in fact, pays 
half my weekly allowance), and seeks in his coat-pocket for 
an orange. He does all this very gravely, without smiling, 
only looking depths of care and love almost paternal out of 
his deep-set eyes. While Leonard holds the orange he places 
the violin in my hands. Ah ! what joy even to draw the 
bow across the strings, though my arms are not long enough 
yet to hold the instrument properly. Somehow this rugged 
old soldier taught me. to feel music, and the rapture of pro- 
ducing music, before my fingers could handle notes or my 
hands could hold a bow. He leaves the orange for Leonard 
and myself, and disappears. Moses returns unexpectedly, 
and demands a share. There is a fight. 

Or it is another visitor, the Captain. He wears his blue 
frock-coat with brass buttons and white ducks ; he carries his 
hands behind him, and a stick in them, which drags at his 
heels as he walks. We do not see him till he is with us. We 
look up, aud ho teams upou us, smiliug all ovor kis fosy face. 


THIRTY YEARS AGO. 


37 


How is the little Pole ? ” asks the kindly Captain, shak- 
ing hands with us. How is tlie other young rascal ? ” 

I have a distinct recollection of his eyes wandering in the 
direction of our boots, which were certainly going, if not 
altogether gone, both soles and heels. And I remember that 
he shook his head. Also that in the evening new boots 
came for both of us. And that Mrs. Jeram said, nodding 
her head, that he — meaning perhaps the Captain — was a 
good man. 

Another recollection. 

I am, somehow or other, in the street by myself. How I 
got there, what I proposed to myself when I set out on my 
journey, I cannot tell. But I was lost in the streets of the 
old seaport town. I was walking along the pavement feel- 
ing a good deal frightened, and wondering how I was to get 
back to Victory Row, or even to the Poles’ Barrack, when I 
became aware of a procession. It was a long procession, 
consisting of sailors marching, every man with a lady on his> 
arm, two and two, along the middle of the street, singing as 
they went. They wore long curls, these jolly tars, shining 
with grease, hanging down on either side below, or rather in 
front of their hats. Curls were the fashion in those days. 
There were about thirty men in this rollicking train. At 
their head, limping along very fast, marched my poor old 
friend Wassielewski, his grave face and melancholy eyes a 
contrast to the careless and jovial crew who followed him. 
He was fiddling as he went one of those lively tunes that 
sailors love, a tune which puts their legs a dancing and 
pours quicksilver into their feet. Some of them, indeed, 
were capering along the line, unable to wait till the crib ” 
was reached. Also down the street I saw another exactly 
similar procession. How was I to know that the Royal 
Frederick had been paid off that morning, and that a thou- 
sand Jack Tars were altogether chucking away the money 
in a few days which it had taken them three years to earn ? 
The old Pole would get some share of it, however, for that 
was the way in which he earned the money which mostly 
came to me. 


38 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


He spied me presently standing alone on the kerbstone, 
and handing the fiddle to one of the men, hurried across the 
road, and took me in his arms. 

Ladislas ! ’’ he said, with his quaint foreign accent. 
‘‘ What are you doing here ? Why are you not at home ? 

Bring him over. Fiddler Ben,” cried one of the men. 

111 carry the little chap. Lord ! what’s one boy ? I’ve had 
a dozen of ’em at home, somewheres. Now then, messmates 
Strike up. Fiddler Ben. With a will, my lad.” 

It is the son of my old master and lord,” began Wassie- 
lewski, holding me in his arms helplessly. 

Bring along his lordship, then,” said the man. ‘‘I’ll 
carry the noble hearl.” 

The Pole resumed the fiddle with a sigh, and took up his 
place as band and bandmaster in one. 

“ Uncommon light in the arms is the noble duke. Many 
a fo’k’sle kid ’ud weigh more. Poll, our’n ’ud weigh twice 
as much. Come up, yer Ryal Highness.” 

I suppose I must have been a very small boy, even for a 
five years’ old child. But the man carried me tenderly,, as 
sailors always do. We came to a public-house; that one 
with the picture outside it of the Chinese War. There was 
a long, low sort of hall within it, at the end of which Wassie- 
lewski took his place, and began to fiddle again. Dancing 
then set in, though it was still early in the morning, with 
great severity. With dancing, drink ; with both, songs ; 
with all three, Wassielewski’s fiddle. I suppose it was the 
commencement of a drunken orgie, and the whole thing was 
disgraceful. Eemember, however, that it was more than 
thirty years ago, when the Navy still retained its old tra- 
ditions. Foremost among these was the tradition that being 
ashore meant drink as long as the money lasted. It some- 
times lasted a week, or even a fortnight, and was sometimes 
got through in a day or two. There were harpies and pirates 
in every house which was open to Jack. Jack, indeed, was 
cheated ^wherever he went. Afloat he was robbed by the 
purser; he was ill-fed and found, the Government paying 
for good food and good stores ; contractors and purveyors 


THIRTY YEARS AGO. 


39 


combined with the purser to defraud him. Ashore, he was 
horribly, shamefully cheated and robbed, when he was paid 
off by a Navy bill, and fell into the hands of the pay agents. 
He was a rough-hided ruffian who could fight, had seen plenty 
of fighting, was tolerably inured to every kind of climate, and 
ready to laugh at any kind of danger, except, perhaps. Yellow 
Jack. He was also tender-hearted and sentimental. Some- 
times he was away for five years at a stretch, and, if his 
captain chose to make it so, his life was a dog’s life. Flog- 
gings were frequent ; rum was the reward of good conduct ; 
there were no Sailors’ Homes, none of the many humanising 
influences which have made the British sailor the quiet, 
decorous creature, generally a teetotaler, and often inclined 
to a Methodist way of thinking in religion, half soldier half 
sailor, that he is at present. 

It was an orgie, I suppose, at which no child should have 
been present. Fortunately, at half-past twelve, the landlord 
piped all hands for dinner, and Wassielewski carried me away. 
He would return after dinner, to play on and on till night fell, 
aud there was no one left to stand upon his legs. Then 
Wassielewski would put the fiddle away in its case, and go 
back to the Barrack, where he sat in silence, and brooded. 
The other Poles smoked and talked, but this one held himself 
apart. He was an irreconcilable, and he refused to accept 
defeat. 

One more scene. 

The Common Hard, which is still, after all the modern 
changes, a street with a distinct character of its own. The 
houses still look out upon the bright and busy harbour, 
tliough there is now a railway terminus and an ugly pier; 
though steam launches run across the water; and though 
there are telegraph posts, cabs, and omnibuses, all the out- 
ward signs of advanced civilisation. But thirty years ago it 
was a place which seemed to belong to the previous century. 
There were no great houses and handsome shops, but in their 
place, a picturesque row of irregular cottages, no two of 
which were exactly alike, but which resembled each other in 
certain particulars. They were two-storied houses ; the 


40 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUE. 


upper story was very low, the ground-floor was below the 
level of the street. I do not know why, but the fact remains 
that in my town the ground-floors of all the old houses were 
below the level of the pavement. You had to stoop, if you were 
tall, to get into the doorway, and then, unless you were ex- 
perienced, you generally fell headlong down a step of a foot 
or so. Unless the houses were shops, they had only one 
window below and one above, because the tax on windows 
obliged people to economise their light. The roofs were of 
red tiles, high-pitched, and generally broken-backed ; stone- 
crop and house- leek grew upon them. The Hard existed 
then only for the sailors. There were one or two jewellers, 
who bought as well as sold ; many public-houses ; and a 
plentiful supply of rascally pay-agents. That side had little 
interest for boys. In old times the high tide had washed 
right up to the foot of these houses which then stood upon 
the beach itself. But they built a stone wall, which kept 
back the water, and allowed a road to be made, protected by 
an iron railing. An open space gave access to what was 
called the “ beach,” being a narrow spit of land, along which 
were ranged on either side the wherries of the boatmen. A 
wooden bench was placed along the iron railing near the 
beach, on which sat every day, and all day long, old sailors, 
in a row. It was their club, their daily rendezvous, the place 
where they discussed old battles, smoked pipes, and lamented 
bygone days. They never seemed to walk about or to care 
much where they sat. They sat still, and sat steadily, in 
hot weather and in cold. The oddest thing about this line 
of veterans was that they all seemed to have wooden legs. 
There was, or there exists in my memory, which is the same 
thing, a row of wooden pegs which did duty for the lost legs, 
sticking out straight in front of the bench when they were 
on it. The effect of this was very remarkable. Some, of 
course, had lost other outlying bits of the human frame ; a 
hand, the place supplied by a hook, like that of Cap’en 
Cuttle, whose acquaintance I formed later on; a whole arm, 
its absence marked by the empty sleeve sewn to the front of 
the jersey ; and there were scars in plenty. Like my friend’s 


THIRTY YEARS AGO. 41 

the Poles, these heroes had gained their scars and lost their 
limbs in action. 

Thirty years ago we were only a quarter of a century or 
so from the long and mighty struggle which lasted for a 
whole generation, and filled this seaport town with prosperity, 
self-satisfaction, and happiness. Oh, for the brave old days 
when week after week French, American, Spanish, and 
Dutch prizes were towed into harbour by their victors, or 
sailed in, the Union Jack flying at the peak, the original 
crew safe under hatches, in command of a middy and half a 
dozen British sailors told off to take her home. They talked, 
these old grizzle heads, of fights and convoys, and perilous 
times afloat. I sat among them, or stood in front of them, 
and listened. Child as I was, my little heart glowed to hear 
how, yardarm to yardarm, they lay alongside the Frenchman ; 
how a dozen times over the plucky little French beggars 
tried to board them ; how she sheered off at last, and they 
followed, raking her fore and aft ; how she suddenly broke 
out into flame, and before you could say “ Jack Eobinson,’’ 
blew up with all that was left of a thousand men aboard ; 
with merry yarns of Chinese pigtails, made to be pulled by 
the British sailor, and niggers of Jamaica, and Dutchmen at 
the Cape. Also,»what stories of slavers, of catching American 
skippers in the very act of chucking the niggers overboard ; 
of cutting out Arab dhows ; of sailing in picturesque waters 
where the natives swim about in the deep like porpoises ; 
of boat expeditions up silent rivers in search of piratical 
Malays ; of lying frozen for months in Arctic regions, long 
before they thought of calling men heroes for passing a 
single winter on the ice with every modern appliance for 
making things comfortable. 

Among these old 5 alfcs was one — of course he had a wooden 
leg — with a queer twisted -up sort of face. One eye was an 
independent revolving light, but the other obeyed his will, 
and once you knew which eye that was you were pretty safe 
with him. He had a very profound and melodious bass 
voice. When I passed he used to growl a greeting which 
was like the thunder of a distant salute. He never went 


4 ^ 


BY CELIACS ABBOUB. 


farther than the greeting, on accoant of certain family dif- 
ferences, which made us shy of becoming too intimate. I 
learned the fact from a curious ceremonial which happened 
regularly every Saturday night. At eight o’clock, or in 
summer at nine, Mrs. Jeram drew down her white blind, if 
it was not already drawn, placed one candle on the table, and 
herself between the candle and the window. The natural 
effect of this was to exhibit to the world a portrait in profile 
of herself. She sat bolt upright, and being a thin woman 
with plenty of bone — though the most kind-hearted of all 
creatures — the portrait thus presented was angular, stiff, and 
uncompromising. 

Meanwhile in the street outside sat my friend, timber- 
toed ” Jack — the ancient mariner with the deep voice and 
the revolving eye. He was perched comfortably on a three- 
legged stool lent by a friend, his remaining limb tucked 
away snug and ship-shape among the legs of the tripod, and 
the peg sticking out as usual at right angles to his body. 
There he sat and smoked a pipe. From time to time he 
raised his voice, and in an utterance which shook the 
windows of every house in the Kow, he growled — 

‘‘ Rachel ! Come out and make it up.” 

There was no answer. Then the neighbours, who always 
congregated on this occasion, and took an intense interest 
in the progress of the family jar, murmured a soft chorus of 
persuasive and honeyed words, meant for Rachel too — who 
was Mrs. Jeram. But she never moved. 

“ Rachel ! ’Twarn’t my fault. ’Twas her as dragged me 
along in tow. Took prisoner I was.” 

Ah ! the artful thing ” — this was the chorus — which 
well we know them; and they’ll take in tow the best, at 
times; and a little in drink as well.” 

No answer again this time, but an angry toss of the head 
which conveyed to the silhouette on the blind an expression 
of incredulity. 

Aft^r half an hour’s enjoyment of the pipe, the old sailor 
would noisily beat out the ashes. Then we inside the house 
would hear him once more — 


THIUTY YEaKS AGfO. 


43 


^^Then, Eachel, God bless you and good-night; and bless 
the boys. And, please the Lord, 111 be here again next 
Saturday. And hoping to find you in a forgivin’ mood.” 

When he was gone Mrs. Jeram would leave her seat and 
come to her own chair by the fireplace. But her hands 
always trembled, and sometimes her eyes were wet. For it 
was her husband, and she could not make up her mind to 
forgive him the old offence. 

That was why, on the Hard, the wooden-legged sailor and 
I had little or no conversation together. 

One day — I was between eight and nine at the time — we 
were all four on the Logs. The Logs were, to begin with, a 
forbidden place, and, if only on that account, delightful. But 
also on other accounts. There was a floating pier there, 
consisting of two or three square-hewn timbers laid alongside 
of each other, between posts stuck at intervals in the mud.. 
They had a tendency to turn round beneath the tread of a 
heavy man, and when that happened, and the heavy man’s 
feet fell in between two logs, it was apt to be bad for those 
feet. Men-of-war’s boats used to land their oflHcers and crew 
at the end of the Logs ; there was a constant running to and 
fro of sailors, officers, and harbour boatmen. Also, on the 
left-hand side as you went down this rough pile, there was 
a space of water some acres in extent, in which lay in orderly 
rows, one beside the other, a whole forest of timbers, waiting 
for time, the sun, and salt water together to season them. 
And if the logs were apt to turn under the tread of a heavy 
man, these timbers would turn under the foot of a light boy. 
Judge, therefore, of the joy of running backwards and for- 
wards over their yielding and uncertain ground. 

Leonard, who rejoiced beyond measure to run over the 
Logs himself, would seldom let me come with him even down 
the pier, and never over the timbers. On this day, however, 
we had all four gone down to the very end of the Logs ; half 
a dozen ships’ boats had touched, landed their men, and gone 
back again. Jem, the simple and foolish Jem, was gazing 
in admiration at the sailors, who looked picturesque in their 
blue shirts, straw hats, and shiny curls. I even caught Jem 


44 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


in the act of feeling whether his own hair behind the ear 
would not curl if twisted between finger and thumb. Moses 
was sitting straddle-legged on a projecting log, his boots in 
his hands, and his bare feet and legs lapped by the water. 
Leonard and I stood on the pier, watching. Presently there 
came along a man-o’-war’s gig, manned by twelve sailors 
sitting side by side, rowing their short, deep stroke, without 
any feathering, but in perfect time. In the stern sat a 
middy, the very smallest middy I ever saw, no bigger than 
Leonard, dressed in the most becoming uniform in the world, 
and calmly conscious of his importance. He landed, gave a 
brief order, and strode as manfully as his years would allow 
down the Logs. As he passed on his eye rested on Leonard, 
and I saw the latter flush. 

When the middy was gone I turned to Leonard, and said 
with the enthusiasm of admiration — 

Lenny, when I grow up I shall be a middy like that.” 

A small thing to say, and indeed, the grandeur of the boy 
and his power overwhelmed me for a moment, else I ought 
to have known, at eight years of age, that children living 
with charwomen on charity are not the stuff out of which 
officers of the Royal Navy are generally manufactured. 

Ah ! yah 1 ” roared Moses, tossing up his legs. 

'‘What are you laughing at?” cried Leonard in a rage. 

Ah ! yah ! ” he repeated. Hunchback ! Hunchey in a 
uniform, with a sword at his side.” 

I declare that up to that moment 1 had no more conscious- 
ness of being deformed than I had of Hebrew. I suppose 
that in some dim way I knew that T was differently shaped 
— smaller than Leonard, that my clothes were not such as 
he could wear, but not a thought, not a rough suspicion that 
I was, by reason of this peculiarity, separated from my 
fellows. Then all of a sudden it burst upon me. Not in its 
full misery. A hunchback has to grow to manhood before 
he has drunk the whole of the bitter cup ; he has to pass 
through the years of school life, when he cannot play like other 
boys, nor run, nor jump, nor fight like them ; when he is either 
tolerated or pitied. He has to become a young man among 


THIBTY YEABS AGO. 


45 


young men, to realise that lie is not as they are ; to look on 
envying while they rejoice in the strength and beauty of 
their youth ; to hear their talk of girls and sweet looks and 
love, while all girls look down upon him, he foolishly thinks, 
with contempt. I did not feel the whole misery at once. I 
only realised, all of a sudden that I was disgracie, that the 
grandeurs which I envied were not for me, that I was to be 
despised for my misfortune — and I sat down in this sudden 
misery and cried aloud. 

A moment afterwards there was a fight. Leonard and 
Moses. They fought on the narrow log. Leonard was the 
pluckier, but Moses was the stronger. The sailors in the gig 
looked on and laughed, and clapped their hands. Through 
my shameful tears I only saw half the duel. It was termi- 
nated by the fall of both into the water, one on either side 
the Logs. The water was only two or three feet deep, and 
they came up, face to face, and driving fists at each other 
across the eighteen-inch plank. It was Jem who stopped 
the battle, stepping in between the combatants, and ordering 
in his rough way that both should get out of the water and 
fight it out on dry land. 

“ He called me Hunchback, Leonard,” I gasped, holding 
his hand as he ran, wet and dripping, through the streets. 

“Yes, Laddy,” he replied. “Yes, Laddy, he’s a cub 
and a cur, and a thick-headed fool. But I’ll let him know 
to-morrow.” 

“ And you won’t let him call me Hunchey, Leonard ? ” 

“ Not if I have to fight him all day long, Laddy. So 
there.” 

But next day’s fight, if it was begun, was never finished, 
because in the afternoon we both, Leonard and I, walked 
away with the Captain, each holding one hand of his, Leonard 
carrying his stick. And when we got to the Captain’s it 
was explained to us that we were to stay there. 


46 


CELIACS ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE YOUNG PRINCE. 

T en years of boyhood followed. In taking us both away 
from Mrs. Jeram the Captain promised her on behalf 
of Leonard, and Wassielewski on behalf of myself, that we 
should be brought up, in his old-fashioned way of putting 
it, in the fear of God and the desire to do our duty. It was 
an uneventful time, which has left few recollections. I 
suppose that kind of time — it has been always mine — is the 
happiest which leaves the fewest memories. Yet its happi- 
ness for the want of contrast is not felt. Perhaps it is better 
not to be happy, and to lead the life of action and peril such 
as has been granted to Leonard and denied to me. When 
the time arrives to lie down and go to sleep it must be good 
to leave behind the memory of bygone great days big with 
issues dependent on your courage and self-possession. My 
life has but one episode, and because it is not likely to have 
another I have sat down to tell it. In the end I am like 
any rustic on a farm, any secluded dweller on a remote island, 
inasmuch as one day has followed and will follow another, 
marked with no other change than from sunshine to rain, 
from summer to winter. 

Of coarse we were soon sent to school. The fact that I 
was a Pole, coupled with my deformity, produced in my 
favour the mingled feeling of respect and curiosity with 
hardly disguised contempt which boys always feel for a 
foreigner or a cripple. Of course, too, it immediately became 
known that we had been living in Victory Row, under the 
care of a charwoman. Contumely was the first result of 
the knowledge. Leonard, however, then about eleven, showed 
himself so handy with his fists — one consequence of his 
majiy combats with Moses — with a disregard of superior 
weight and strength as complete as any one of Nelson’s 
captains might have shown — that any further reference to 
charwomen or accidents of birth had to be made with bated 
breath and went out of fashion in the school. New boys, it 


THE YOUNG PEINCE. 


47 


is true, were instigated, as if it was a joke, to ask Leonard 
for information as to the price of soap and the interests 
of washing. The miserable victim introduced the subject 
generally with a grin of superiority as became a boy who 
had a father living in the flesh. It was very beautiful, then, 
to observe how that new boy, after the short flght that 
followed, became anxious ever after to avoid the subject of 
charing and charwomen ; for however big that boy was 
Leonard went for him, and however often Leonard was 
knocked down he arose from Mother Earth bruised and 
bleeding, but fresh. The bigger the new boy the more 
prolonged was the flght. The more resolute the new boy 
the more delightful to spectators was Leonard’s bull-dog 
tenacity. Once or twice the battle was drawn by foreign 
intervention. Never once was Leonard defeated. 

After each battle we walked home proudly certain of 
receiving the Captain’s approbation when he learned the 
casus Iclli; for he always insisted on hearing the full details, 
and gloried in the prowess and pluck of the boy. 

We led a frugal life, because the Captain had little besides 
his half-pay and the house we lived in, which was his own, 
and had been his father's before him. Sunday was the day 
of the weekly feast. On that day the Captain wore his 
undress uniform, and we went to chnrch in the morning. 
After church we walked round the walls, and at half-past 
one we came home to dinner. It was Leonard’s privilege 
to pipe hands for the meal, which always consisted of roast 
beef and plum- duff, brought in by the Captain’s one servant, 
while Leonard played on the flfe the Roast Beef of Old 
England.” After dinner there was a glass of port all round, 
with a double ration for the chief, and fruit for the boys. 
In the evening we read aloud, the Captain acting as expositor 
and commenting as we went ; we did not go to church, 
because the Captain said it was ridiculous to suppose there 
was any necessity for church oftener ashore than afloat. But 
after I got a piano I used to play and sing hymns till supper, 
when the Captain told us yarns. 

When Leonard was fourteen another change w^as made. 


48 


BY CELIACS AKBOUK. 


We left the school, and went, he and I together, to the Rev. 
Mr. Verney Broughton, as his private pupils. Mr. Broughton, 
the perpetual curate of St. Faith’s, gave us, as I have since 
learned, these lessons at his own request, and gratuitously, 
though he was far from being a rich man. 

Our tutor was a scholar of the old-fashioned school ; he 
was an ex-fellow of Oriel, and openly held the opinion that 
nothing new had been written for about eighteen hundred 
years: he considered science, especially mechanical science, 
as unworthy the study of a scholar : he looked on Latin and 
Greek verse as the only safe means of educating the higher 
faculties : and he regarded the great writers of Rome and 
Athens as the only safe models of style, thought, and taste. 

He was a stout, short man, with a red face, due, perhaps, 
to his fondness for port, his repugnance to physical exercise, 
and his habit of spending all the money he could spare on 
his dinners. A kind-hearted man, and a Christian up to 
his lights. His method of working ” his parish would 
hardly find favour in these days of activity, consisting, as it 
did, in nothing whatever except three services on Sunday 
and one on Wednesday and Friday evenings. No mothers* 
meetings, no prayer meetings, no societies, no early celebra- 
tions, no guilds. His sermons were learned and scholarly, 
with a leaning towards morality, and they inculcated the 
importance of holding Church doctrines. He was a Church- 
man high and dry, of a kind now nearly extinct. Those who 
w^anted emotional religion went to other places of worship ; 
those who were content with the old paths sat in their square 
pews every Sunday, and assisted ” in silence at a service 
which was a comfortable duet between parson and clerk. 

We were put through the classical mill by Mr. Broughton. 
The course made me, in a way, a scholar. It made Leonard 
a man of action. He read the Homeric battles, and rejoiced 
to follow the conquering Diomede in the way of war.** He 
read the tragedies of Euripides, and, like all boys, espoused 
the cause of Troy the conquered. 

He had, however, no inclination in the direction of 

scholarship, and persisted in looking on books as, on the 


THE YOUNG PKINCE. 


49 


whole, a rather disagreeable necessity in the training for 
after-life. For, with the knowledge of his first beginnings 
ever present in his mind, there grew up in him more and 
more strongly a resolution that he would make himself a 
gentleman. Somehow — he did not at all know how — but 
by some path or other open to lads who are penniless, alone 
in the world, and almost friendless, he would become a 
gentleman. Thus, when the Captain proposed that he 
should enter the navy as a master’s assistant, Leonard scorn- 
fully refused, on the ground that he could be nothing under 
the rank of combatant officer. Mr. Broughton suggested 
that the two Universities are rich wdth endowments, and 
that fellowships await those who are strong enough to win 
them; but Leonard would not hear of the years of study 
before the prize was reached. 

‘‘ In the old days, Laddy,” he said, I should have been 
put into a monastery, I suppose, and made my way by cling- 
ing to the skirts of a great ecclesiastical minister, like 
Pdchelieu and Mazarin. But I cannot go in for the modern 
substitute of university and fellowship. Fancy me in a 
black gown, when I should like to be in a uniform ! 

‘‘ In the old days,’’ I said, men sometimes forced their 
way by joining the Free Companies.” 

‘‘Ay,” he replied, “that. was a life worth having. Fancy 
riding through the country at the head of a thousand lances, 
gentlemen adventurers every one ; a battle every other day, 
and an adventure the day between. What a pity the time 
is past for Free Companies. Let us go on the Common and 
see the soldiers.” 

That was his favourite resort. The march and movement 
of troops, the splendour of the array, the regimental bands, 
the drill of the awkward squad, delighted his soul. And 
here he would stand contentedly for half a day, watching the 
soldiers at their exercises. 

“If one could only be a soldier, Laddy,” he w^ould say; 
“ if there was any chance of rising, as there used to be in 
the French army ! Every (Jruww;* looj with a marshaTg 
lotion in his pocket.’' 

D 


50 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUE. 


“ And how many were able to take it out of their pocket ? ” 
One here and there. I should have tried to be that one.” 

One da}^, as he was talking in this strain, a soldier’s 
funeral passed us — his comrades carried the coffin. Before 
it marched the fifes and muffled drums, playing the Dead 
March ; behind it a file of men with arms reversed. We 
followed. After the short service the men fired a round over 
the nameless grave, and all marched off at quick step. 

‘‘That one has failed, Leonard,” I said. 

“Ay, he has failed. Poor common soldier! He had but 
a slender chance. None of them have any real chance.” 

He was dejected for a few minutes. Then a thought 
struck him, and he brightened up. 

“ Perhaps he was only an ignorant, beer- drinking clod. 
No doubt that was all. Pah 1 What chance could he have ? 
Such a soldier was not a failure, Laddy. He rose in the 
world. He became drilled, civilised, and useful. And when 
he died he was buried with military honours.” 

At sixteen he gave up his classical work altogether, arriv- 
ing at the conclusion that it was not by Latin and Greek 
he would reach his aim. Other things, he discovered, would 
be of more use to him. Among them was French. He found 
in the Polish Barrack two or three men who knew French 
as well as their own language, one of whom undertook, for 
a very small fee, to teach him. He worked at the new study 
almost feverishly, learning the language after his own w^ay, 
by reading French books all day, by talking with his tutor 
as much as possible, and by learning whole pages of the 
dictionary. As we had no French books in our little library, 
we picked up for nothing at a bookstall a packet of old French 
newspapers and pamphlets dated about the year 1 809, which 
probably once belonged to some French prisoner in the long 
wars, and these formed Leonard’s introduction to the French 
language. His spare time he devoted to mathematics and 
to drawing. Here the Poles helped him again, many of the 
poor fellows being full of accomplishments and knowledge ; 
so that, for the last year of his home life, Leonard was almost 
wholly in the Polish Barracks. The exiles, to whom this 


THE YOUNG PRINCE. 


SI 

bright and handsome lad was a godsend of sunshine, rejoiced 
to teach him what they could, if only as a break in the 
monotony of their idle lives. And while I was welcome 
among them for my name’s sake, Leonard was welcome for 
his own sake. They taught him, besides French, mathe- 
matics and drawing, how to speak Kussian, how to ride, 
with the aid of borrowed steeds, how to fence, and what 
was the meaning of fortification. 

As Leonard approached manhood he assumed a prouder 
carriage, due partly to the resolution within his heart, and 
partly to the defiance natural to his position. Mrs. Jeram 
said he was a prince born. Certainly no one acted the 
character better. Everything that he did was princely ; he 
spoke as one born to command : with his quick, keen eye, 
his curly locks, his head flung back, his tall and slender 
figure, full of grace and activity, he was my hero as well as 
my leader and protector. 

He would not associate with any boys in the town — those 
boys whose society was open to him — nor would he suffer me 
to know them. You are a gentleman of Poland,” he said 
grandly. “ You may call yourself a count if that would help 
you. I am going to make myself a gentleman, whatever my 
father was. We must not hamper ourselves by early friend- 
ships which might afterwards prove annoying.” 

It was not altogether boyish bounce, nor altogether self- 
conceit, because, full of sympathy in other things, in this he 
was inexorable, that nothing whatever should interfere with 
his determination to lift himself out of the ranks. And 
almost the only reading he permitted himself lay in any 
books he could find which showed how men have risen from 
small beginnings to great things. Not greatness in the way 
of authorship. He had no feeling for literary success. I 
would like,” he said, to have my share in making history, 
let who will write it. Who would not rather be Hannibal 
than Livy, or Hector than Homer? If you were to offer me 
the choice between Sir Philip Sidney and Shakespeare, I 
would rather be Sidney. All the greatest men have been 
soldiers and sailors — fighting men.” 


52 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


Then he would dilate on the lives of the French generals, 
and tell how Murat, Lannes, Kleber, Hoche, Augereau, and 
Marmont, fought their way valiantly up the ladder from the 
very lowest round. 

How his purpose was to be accomplished, by what means 
he was to rise, he never explained. Nor did he, I think, 
ever seriously consider. But we all believed in him. The 
Captain, Celia, Mrs. Jeram, and I looked forward confidently 
to the time when Leonard should rise, superior to all dis- 
advantages, a leader of men. If he had told us that he was 
going to become Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Chancellor, 
or even H.R.H. the Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief, we 
should have believed that with the same confidence. 

One day — it was Saturday, about Christmas-time — Leonard 
did not come home to dinner. The Captain waited for no 
one, and we sat down without him. It was three o’clock 
when he returned, and it was evident that something had 
happened, for his face was fiushed, and his hands trembled. 

I have been with Mrs. Jeram, sir,” he said, in reply to 
the Captain’s look of inquiry. She has told me about my 
mother,” his voice breaking into a sob — “ about my poor 
mother.” 

He buried his face in his hands. 

“ Ay, ay. Poor boy. Natural to ask.” The Captain put 
out his hand and stroked Leonard’s curls. 

Mrs. Jeram,” Leonard lifted his head and went on, 

gave me all she left. Only a wedding-ring. Nothing but 
a wedding-ring. See ; and a message. A strange message. 
‘ Tell my boy,’ she said, when she died, ‘ that if ever he 

finds his father he must forgive him ; but he had better 

not seek for him. And tell him — but not till he grows 

up — that his father is a gentleman and his mother was a 

lady.’ That was the message, sir.” 

‘‘Ay!” said the Captain, clearing his throat. “I knew 
it long ago, Leonard. Mrs. Jeram told me, when you came 
here, you and Laddy — you were both alike — gentlemen 
born ” 

“ How shall I forgive him ? ^ asked Leonard, springing to 


THE YOUNG PEINCE. 


53 


his feet, panting and trembling. How shall I forgive the 
man who let my mother — his wife — die deserted and alone?’' 

‘‘The rules are laid down,” said the Captain gravely, 
“ clear and distinct : ' Forgive us as we forgive.’ Likewise 
^Honour thy father.’” 

Leonard was silent. 

“ And as for this wedding-ring,” said the Captain, taking 
it from the boy’s hand, “ I think if I were you, I would wear 
it always.” He opened a drawer and found a piece of black 
ribbon. “ Uniforms,” he went on, without my seeing the 
connection, at first, “ uniforms and badges are useful things. 
You cant do anything disgraceful in the Queen’s uniform. 
Clergymen wear black to show they are in mourning for the 
world’s sins. Do you wear this ring as a badge only known 
to yourself, my boy. A wedding-ring — it’s a pretty thing,” 
looking at the symbol lying in his hand — “it means purity 
and faith. If you wear it, boy, in that sense, your mother’s 
memory will be honoured. Purity and faith. Perhaps we’ve 
given the ring to the wrong sex.” 

The Captain turned in his chair, and took up a book. It 
was his sign that he had no more to say on the subject. 

Leonard touched my arm, and we stole out together. Then 
we took our hats, and went into the street. 

“ I cannot bear myself, Laddy,” he burst out. “ I am half- 
mad to think of it. She was deserted ; she wandered about, 
and came here. Mrs. Jeram picked her up, houseless and 
crying in the street. She had a little money then, but the 
doctor took it all, because next day, before she conld say who 
she was, or where she came from, I was born, and my mother 
died. Not a line, not a letter, to say who she was ; Mrs. 
Jeram took me, and promised her whose life — Oh ! my mother 
— was passing swiftly from her — that she would bring me 
up,” — he stopped here for a moment — “ And then she died, 
and they buried her. . . . Do you know where the paupers 
are buried, Laddy ? They buried my mother there.” 

Yes, I knew. Some of the Poles were buried there. The 
old parish church, with its broad churchyard, stood a mile 
and a half from the town. The God’s Acre was so crowded 


54 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


with graves that its surface was raised six feet above the 
level of the road, and the tombstones stood side by side, 
almost touching each other. But in one corner there was a 
large open space on which there were no stones, where the 
grass grew thinly, and where the newly-turned clay, if you 
looked closely, was full of bits of wood, remains of old coffins. 
There was no shape to the graves in this corner ; only rows 
of shapeless mounds and irregular unevenness in the ground. 
This was the paupers’ corner, the place where they bestowed 
those for whose funeral the parish had to pay, so that the 
contempt of poverty followed after them, and rested on their 
very graves. I knew the place well, and shuddered when 
Leonard turned his steps to the road which led to the church. 
It was nearly four, and the early winter’s day was drawing 
to a close. From a sky almost black poured down great 
flakes of snow, silently falling and giving an appearance of 
light after the hidden sun had gone down. As our heels 
echoed on the iron bridges beyond the Gate, I looked round 
and saw the ramparts standing up white and smooth, like 
a great wedding-cake against the gloomy heavens. Down 
in the moat, the sluggish water lay between two banks of 
dazzling white, flanked with scarp and counterscarp. Leonard 
hurried on, and we passed in silence along the streets of the 
suburb, and so into the fields beyond, till we came to the 
church standing with its old tower among the dead. 

It was growing dark now, in spite of the snow. 

The iron gates of the churchyard were open, and the church 
where the choir were practising for next day’s service was 
partially lighted up. Leonard led the way to the far-off 
paupers’ quarter. 

It lay, a quarter of an acre in extent, quiet and peaceful, 
wrapped in the pall of the soft white snow. About the rest 
of the crowded churchyard there were paths among the graves, 
up and down, which were the footsteps in the snow of those 
who came to visit the dead. Here there were no paths and 
no footsteps. In the rest of the churchyard there was always 
some one to be seen — a widow leading her child to see the 
father’s grave, an old man wandering among the monuments 


THE YOUKG PRINCE. 


55 


of tliose lie had known in their youth, a sister w^eeping over 
a brother s grave, a mother over her son — always some one 
to connect the world of the dead with the world of the living. 
Here no one came to break the lonely silence of the for- 
gotten graves. Elsewhere there were flowers in spring, 
cypresses and evergreens in and among the graves. Here 
there was nothing, not even a straggling briar, and even the 
grass was so often disturbed that it had not time to grow. 
For these were the graves, not of the poor, but of the very 
poor, of those hapless mortals who die in the misery of 
destitution, and have not even money enough left to buy 
them a separate resting-place. They lay there, thickly 
crowded, and every one forgotten. For among their own 
class Death speedily brings oblivion. Who can remember 
those that are gone before when from hour to hour one 
has to think about the next meal? Whether they were 
buried ten years before, or only yesterday, the hundreds who 
lay before us in that corner, covered over with a thin layer of 
mould and the sheet of snow, were everywhere as absolutely 
forgotten as if they had never even lived. Was it to rescue 
the dead from this ignoble oblivion that people once wor- 
shipped their ancestors ? 

And amongst them, somewhere, was Leonard’s mother. 
Where is she ? ” he whispered. “ Oh ! in what spot did 
they lay her ? A lady, born of gentle parents, the wife of a 
gentleman, to die neglected and be buried like a pauper ! 
And not to know even where she is laid ! ” 

That does not matter, Leonard,” I said weakly. Her 
spirit « not in her grave.” 

He made no answer, but flung his arms above his head. 

‘‘ My poor dead mother,” he prayed, my poor lost mother ! 
I believe that you can see and hear me, though you cann{)t 
come to me. If you can help me where you are, help me. 
If you can pray for your son, pray for me. If you can lift 
me upwards, lift me. But how can I forgive my father ? ” 

Within the church, close by, they were practising the 
responses to the Commandments. And as Leonard concluded 
they sang — 


56 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


“ Incline our hearts to keep this law ! ” 

He heard the words and applied thera, for he turned to 
me in that quick way of his — 

“ How can I honour my father, Laddy, when I don’t know 
where he is, or what he is, and Avhen my mother s last words 
were that I should forgive him r ” 

But his passion was over, and we walked away from the 
old churchyard. 

CHAPTER VI. 

CELIA. 

I CAN hardly remember a time when I did not know Celia, 
but, as my memory of the life with Mrs. Jeram does not 
include her, our acquaintance must have sprung up some 
time after we went to the Captain. It was formed, I suspect, 
upon the walls where we were sent to play, and was allowed, 
or encouraged by Mrs. Tyrrell, Celia’s mother, one of the 
Captain’s friends. Our playground was a quiet place, espe- 
cially at our end, where the town children, to whom the 
ramparts elsewhere were the chief place of recreation, seldom 
resorted. There were earthworks planted with trees and 
grass, and the meadows beneath were bright with buttercups 
and daisies. We were privileged children ; we might run 
up and down the slopes or on the ramparts, or through the 
embrasures, or even clamber about the outer scarp down to the 
very edge of the Moat without rebuke from the Johnnies,” 
the official guardians of the walls, who went about all day 
armed with canes to keep boys from tearing down the earth- 
works. It was this privilege, as well as the general conveni- 
ence of the place for children to play in, which took us nearly 
every day to the Queen’s Bastion. There never was a more 
delightful retreat. In summer the trees afforded shade, and 
in winter the rampart gave shelter. You were in a solitude 
almost unbroken, close to a great centre of life and busy 
work ; you looked out upon the world beyond, where there 
were fields, gardens, and trees ; there was our own round 
corner, with the stately elms above us 3 the banks of grass, 


CELIA. 


57 

all sorts of grass, as one finds where there is no cultivation, 
trembling grass, foxtail grass, and that soft, bushy grass 
for which we had no name ; there was the gun mounted on 
its high carriage, gazing out upon the harbour, a one-eyed 
Polyphemus longing for human food. 

We walked and ran about the walls, we sat, read, and 
talked in Celia’s Arbour. I was the principal reader, because 
Leonard used to act what I read, and Cis always wanted to 
do what Leonard did. 

My usual seat was on the wheel of the gun-carriage, or in 
warm weather I would lie extended full length on the grass, 
while I read, in the high-pitched voice which Nature or my 
rounded back had given me, the narrative which stole us 
from ourselves. Why does no one write such books now ? 
We were Don Quixote and Sancho Panza ; we were Robinson 
Crusoe and Man Friday, that is, Leonard was Don Quixote 
or Robinson, while Celia was Sancho or Man Friday. Up 
the harbour was a flat little island, a peninsula at low tide, 
on which was a farmhouse. I daresay it must have been a 
dismal place to live upon, and by no means free from rats. 
But to us it was charming, for it was Robinson’s Island. To 
this day I cannot look at the book without seeing the island 
again, and peopling it once more with the Solitary and his 
faithful Indian. When we read the Pilgrim’s Progress ” 
Leonard with a stick personated Christian’s terrific combat 
with Apollyon. Or, if we chanced upon the second part, 
Celia was Mercy, and knocked very prettily at the gate, 
while Leonard multiplied himself, and became in turns, or at 
the same time, the Dog, Beelzebub, and the Interpreter. 

It was Leonard who called this place Celia’s Arbour, after 
a glee which I found among Mrs. Tyrrell’s music. The 
harmonies of the old four-part song lie in my heart associated 
with those early days, and with our own retreat. It is a 
tender glee, whose notes are yearnings and sighs, whose 
cadences are love’s hypocrisies, breathing an almost arrogant 
confidence, while veiled behind a mask of pretended fear, 
assumed out of good manners, and certain to deceive no Celia 
that ever lived. We breathed no sighs, we hung no wreath 


58 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


by our Celia's Arbour, but it was a place where two boys 
learned to love one girl. 

She was at first a wilfol and uncertain little maid, her 
moods like the April sky for fitfulness; her way for the 
moment the one right wa}" ; her will law. She would have 
been a despot of the fiercest kind, but for one thing which 
saved her. It was her gift of reading the hearts of those she 
knew. If by that power of hers she read mine, and so could 
say with unerring instinct the thing she had to say, always 
in the way it should be said, then I suppose, she could read 
others. That wilful ness wore off as she grew up, but the 
mysterious power remained. She felt, or seemed to feel, 
what others thought. It is quite certain that this power can 
belong to those who think little about themselves, and comes 
from lon^ watchfulness in observing the connection between 
thought and expression, and learning how to read the lightest 
flash of the eye. She was an only child, and her father was 
the very greatest man in all the town. Not that he was 
greater than the Governor Commandant of the Forces, or than 
the Port Admiral, but he was the greatest man of the muni- 
cipality. He held, or had held, all the offices. He was a 
borough magistrate, ex-Mayor, chairman of everything, 
churchwarden. Past Master of the Masons’ Lodge, and leader 
in everything. In person he was tall and portly, bearing 
himself with an upright and solid carriage. When he passed 
down the street the shopkeepers came to their doors and 
bowed ; mothers pointed him out to their boys as an object 
of emulation ; all the town respected him. He deserved their 
respect for showing them what Leonard was so anxious to 
find out for himself, how a man may rise in the world. He 
had been errand-boy in a law3^er’s office ; he worked every 
evening, and so got learning, and he finally found himself at 
forty the leading solicitor and the most ‘‘ prominent citizen ” 
of the town. 

He lived, after the fashion of the time, in the same house 
where he had his offices. It was a large red brick house, the 
very last in Castle Street before you came to the town wall. 
It had the door in the middle opening into a broad hall, with 


CELIA. 


59 


a large room on either side. These were the offices, and in 
addition to them was a certain structure built out at the side 
devoted to the clerks. The dining-rooms and Mrs. Tyrrell’s 
habitual sitting-room, called the parlour, were at the back, 
overlooking a garden, large for a town house, planted with 
standard apples and pears, and standing behind borders in 
which flourished the common old-fashioned flowers, Virginia 
stocks, candy-tuft, mouse-ear, London pride, double stocks, 
wallflowers, gillyflowers, and the rest, including big holly- 
hocks, round which bees swarmed all the summer, planted in 
the corners. A gate at the end of the wall was unlocked all 
day, so that Celia and I could pass in and out without seeing 
or disturbing the clients. On the first floor was Mrs. Tyrrell’s 
drawing-room, a salon which impressed the visitor with a 
sense of really aristocratic magnificence, so cold, so prim, and 
so very comfortless was it. It was never used, except for a 
dinner-party, that is, once or twice in the year. For lighter 
entertainments, such as a few friends to tea,” the parlour 
was thought quite good enough. Celia’s piano was in the 
parlour ; there was a grand in the drawing-room ; downstairs 
you found comfort and ease ; upstairs splendour and cold. 

The daily life of a professional man, thirty years ago, was 
a good deal simpler, though in many ways more conventional 
than at present. He lived almost always, like Mr. Tyrrell, 
in the house where he had his office ; he dined at one o’clock, 
and his dinners were extremely plain. At five he took tea, 
with bread and butter ; at eight he finished work for the day, 
dismissed his clerks, and sat down at nine with his family to 
supper, the most cheerful meal of the day, going to bed at 
half-past ten. 

There was no talk in those days of a month on the Conti- 
nent, of the necessity for change, or an autumnal holiday ; a 
dance for the young people might be looked for, in some 
quarter or other, three or four times in the year ; to dance in 
the summer was unheard of ; garden-parties were never 
dreamed of; lawn-tennis — even croquet — not yet invented; 
picnics things to imagine. There was a large garrison in the 
town, but the officers rarely appeared at the houses of the 


1 


6o 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR 


lawyers, and kept in their own sets ; the best available society 
consisted of the numerous half- pay and retired naval officers, 
with the clergy and the professional men, and tho maidens, 
who were far more “ proper ” than are their daughters of rinks 
and Badminton, looked on a friendly gathering to tea, with 
a little music afterwards, or a round game, as the highest 
dissipation consistent with properly brought up young lad}^- 
hood. Yet they were perfectly happy. They did not read 
so much ; they did not know so much as their successors ; 
their taste in Art, Dress, Furniture, and Decoration had not 
been developed ; they had not, like Ulysses, seen many men 
and many manners ; they had no doubts on religion ; they 
had not become strong-minded ; they did not sit on School 
Boards, nor sigh for Female Suffrage ; they had never heard 
of the Subjection of the Sex ; they did not envy the wild 
delights open to rich young persons of their own sex in Lon- 
don, because they did not know them, except in terms too 
vague to be harmful. Yet they were, I should think, happier 
than the girl of the present day, because their hearts were set 
on simpler things. They dressed themselves as prettily as 
they knew how and could afford. I looked the other day in 
an old illustrated paper, and saw with a shudder the dresses 
of the girls whom I knew as a boy ; the picture of female 
beauty adorned in the fashion of the day seemed a horrid 
caricature ; but then the artist had not caught the sweet look 
of faces which not even a hairdresser can disfigure; and 
failed in showing the graceful lines which no foolish fash ion - 
copyist can wholly conceal. Bass over the dress. They flirted 
a little, in their quiet way, after church on Sunday morning, 
and over the tea-things in the evening. They read novels, of j 

a decorous order, and not in the least like certain romances | 

now in vogue, written “ by ladies for ladies.” In the course I 

of time, one by one, they got married, and became good I 

wives and good mothers with old-fashioned notions. It was 
peaceful, this vie de province^ and would have been virtuous, 
but for the sin of gossip ; it w^as calm, and might have been 
happy, but for the misfortune of monotony. 

A certain conventionality hung about every act of family 



CELIA. 


6i 


life whicli was, or might be, public. People pretended a 
great deal. If a visitor called — I speak from information 
received, and not from my own experience — the work which 
the young ladies were engaged upon was put aside hastily, 
and they were presented, on the rising of the curtain, so to 
speak, reading in graceful attitudes. There was a fiction 
that callers required refreshment, and the decanters were 
placed upon the table, with the choice of red or white.’’ I 
observed, at an early age, that Mr. Tyrrell, when he took 
wine, which was not every day, abstained from the decanters 
reserved for the use of visitors, and opened a fresh bottle for 
himself. I thought, in those days, that it was disinterested 
generosity on his part, so as to give his visitors the best, but 
I know better now. The duration of a visit was inversely 
proportionate to the rank of the caller. In the case of 
carriage company,” a quarter of an hour at the outside was 
granted, so much at least being needed to impress the street. 
Humbler friends, in whose case the decanters might be 
speedily put away, and the needlework resumed, could stay a 
whole afternoon, if they pleased. On Wednesday and Friday 
evenings, those ladies who could boast of having ‘‘experi- 
enced ” religion, went to church, and gave themselves little 
airs on account of superior spirituality. No one ever dreamed 
of inviting himself to any meal whatever, and if anybody was 
invited, he was made to feel that he was the guest, being 
pressed to eat of things provided in his honour, and becoming, 
whether he liked it or not, the centre of conversation. There 
was, therefore, a good deal of ceremony in our social festivities. 
The handing of the muffins, the dexterous use of the kettle, 
the division of the cake at tea, the invitation to hot spirits 
and water after supper, the request to sing, the management 
of the album: all these things required grace and deport- 
ment ; quite young men went through the prescribed duties 
with manifest anxiety ; young ladies were careful not to allow 
their natural happiness over a little social excitement to inter- 
fere with the exigencies of propriety ; middle-aged men took 
a pride in saying and doing exactly the right thing in the 
right way. Everything in 'bourgeois society of that time had 


62 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


a right way. It is true that this anxiety to keep in the 
groove prevented originality of conversation ; but then we 
all knew what to expect, were able to criticise the perfor- 
mances, afterwards, of a well-known rdle^ and to congratulate 
ourselves on the very proper way in which everybody had 
behaved. 

Pretence is vulgar, but when it is custom it somehow 
ceases to vulgarise. We have our customs still, but they 
are not quite so binding on us. There were plenty of vulgar 
people among us, but we were not necessarily vulgar because 
we dined at one, supped at nine, gave few parties, never 
went abroad, and observed little fashions, with little pretences 
which deceived nobody. So far we were only simple. Celia, 
at least, who was brought up in the lap of this convention- 
ality, could not be, could never have been, vulgar. 

On Sunday we went to St. Faith’s Church, which stands 
in St. Faith’s Square. The building belonged to the reign 
of the Third George, and was, externally, a great barn of red 
brick, set in a courtyard, surrounded by a red brick wall, 
and with a roof of red tiles. Inside it was a large white- 
painted edifice, resting on four pillars. There was a great 
gallery running all round, and, because the church was 
crowded, a second gallery higher up at the west end con- 
tained the organ and choir. The pulpit, reading-desk, and 
clerk’s desk, forming between them a giant staircase, stood 
in the middle of the church ; all three were broad and roomy; 
round the altar- rails sat a school of charity children, who 
pinched each other during the service. In the aisles were 
placed, between the pew-doors, little triangular brackets, on 
each of which sat, in evident discomfort, an aged lady, clad in 
black. They used to rise, curtsey, and open the doors for the 
gentlefolk when they came and when they went away. I used 
to wonder why these ancient dames came to church at all, con- 
sidering the profound misery of those three-cornered brackets. 
But I believe there was a dole of some kind for them, and 
once a month they had the satisfaction of finishing the 
sacra nental wine. The arrangement of the pews was irre- 
gular, the better sort among them being square. In those 


CELIA. 


63 


you sat upon high narrow seats of rough baize, with your 
feet on large hassocks, which made your flesh creep to touch. 
The square pews were a great stumbling-block to children, 
because they were convenient for making faces at each other, 
and this often led to subsequent tears. The Tyrrells had a 
square pew, in which little Celia sat always as demure as a 
nun. During the Communion Service, while the Epistle 
and Gospel were read, we all faced to the east out of polite- 
ness to the clergyman. Social distinctions were observed in 
getting up and sitting down. Poor people obeyed the sum- 
mons of the organ promptly; those who had a position to 
illustrate, got up in the Grand style, that is, slowly, and 
with deliberation. They were well on their feet at about the 
middle of the second line in the hymn, and they held their 
hymn-books with an air of condescending criticism, as if 
there might, after all, be something in the words of the poet. 
At the close of the hymn they sat down as slowly as they 
had got up, long after the organ had finished, even some 
moments after the last of the old ladies in the triangular 
seats had ended her final squawk. And as they sat down 
they looked about the church as if to see that everybody was 
behaving properly. The Captain’s pew, a long one, was 
behind Mr. Tyrrell’s. Leonard often tried, but never suc- 
ceeded in making Celia laugh. Not a single glance of her 
eye did she permit towards the pew where her two friends 
sat. Not a single smile when, Sunday after Sunday, the 
Captain lugged a ke}^ out of his pocket when the hymn was 
given out, and audibly instructed Leonard to get out the 
tools,” meaning the hymn-books. During the sermon, the 
seats were so high that there was no one to be seen except 
the preacher and the clerk; the latter was always asleep. 
And when we came out, we walked away with much 
solemnity, the elders discussing the sermon. 

Time that is long past appears to have been so much 
longer than any period of the present. In twenty years or 
so, I suppose, I, for one, shall have finished my earthly career 
— perhaps, before then. But it does not seem so long to me 
now, looking forward to the end, as it does looking back on 


64 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


those years of school and early life, on which I have dwelt, 
perhaps, at too great length. Being a lonely man, without 
wife, kith, or kin, I like to think of the days when I had a 
brother and a sister. To be sure, I have them still, unaltered 
in affection, but they are not here. In the long winter 
evenings, when I am tired of pupils and melancholy, so tired 
sometimes that even Mendelssohn cannot bring me comfort, 
I sit by the fire and see little Celia once more, as she was, 
wayward and fitful, restless as a sprite, bright as a sunbeam, 
rosy-fingered as Aurora, dancing in and out among our hours, 
making them gay as a bright J une morning ; or standing as 
Minerva might have done, had that most unfortunate goddess 
ever known childhood, pensively looking out on the sunlit 
harbour; or, when she grew older, declaiming with passion 
against the wrongs she read of and the miseries she saw. 
For, as in every town where soldiers and sailors congregate, 
and drink is provided, there were many wrongs and much 
misery ; wicked things which obtruded themselves upon 
even childish eyes. All evil seems to the young so easy to 
prevent and cure. 

Sitting now by the winter fire, and gazing into the coals, 
it is always Celia that I see. She runs through my life like 
a scarlet thread in silk. And for five years — the five years of 
Leonard's ‘‘Wander Time" — we were always together, for I 
was her tutor. 

I forgot to mention that I was a musician. Music is my 
profession. I am a music-master — “ Mr. L. Pulaski ” is on 
the brass door-plate, with underneath, “Lessons in Music 
and Singing." Music has been my joy and solace, as well 
as my profession. I believe I could play as soon as I was 
born ; at all events I had no difficulty in learning ; and when 
Mr. Tyrrell heard of my great gift, and generously presented 
me with a piano, I made myself, almost unassisted, a musician 
of skill as well as of feeling. For I played at every spare 
moment, and therefore I learned to play well. It was 
natural that I should help Cis in her music, and when I left 
school it was natural also that I should become not only her 
music-master, but her tutor in other things, and her com- 


AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 


65 

panion. It was good of Mrs. Tyrrell to trust her to me ; it 
was an education for me to have the charge. No brother 
and sister could have been drawn more closely together than 
we two. And I am quite sure that no man could love a girl 
more than I at all times loved Celia. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 

I HAD one short experience of the way in which other 
people work for money. It lasted three months, and 
happened when Mr. Tyrrell, out of pure kindness, proposed 
that I should enter his office. He said many handsome 
things about me, in making this offer, especially in reference 
to his daughter, and pledged himself to give me my articles 
if I took to the work. 

I accepted, on the condition that I kept my afternoons 
free for Celia, and began the study of the law. 

Well, suffice it to say, that after three months the Captain 
became my ambassador to convey my resignation. And the 
only good thing I got out of my legal experience was the 
friendship of the Bramblers. 

Augustus Brambier, the head of the family, was one of 
Mr. Tyrrell’s clerks. Not the head clerk, who was a man of 
consideration, and had an office to himself, but one of half- 
a-dozen who sat in the room built for them at the side 
of the house, and drove the quill for very slender wage from 
nine in the morning to eight at night. Augustus was no 
longer young when I first met him, being then past forty 
years of age. And although the other clerks were little 
more than boys, Augustus sat among them with cheerful 
countenance and contented heart. He was short of stature, 
and his face was innocent of whisker and as smooth as any 
woman’s ; his features were sketchy, his eyes were large and 
bright, but his expression, in office hours, was maintained 
at a high pressure of unrelenting zeal. Nature intended 
him to be stout, but with that curious disregard for her 


66 


BY CELIACS AEBOUB. 


colleague whicli Fate often shows, his income prevented the 
carrying out of Nature’s intention. So that he remained 
thin, and, perhaps, in consequence, preserved his physical 
activity, which was that of a schoolboy. I was placed under 
his charge, and received papers to copy, while the chief 
clerk gave me books to read. I did copy the papers, to my 
infinite disgust, and I tried to read the books, but here I 
failed. 

Augustus Brambler, I soon discovered, did the least re- 
sponsible work in the office, enjoying a certain consideration 
by reason of the enormous enthusiasm which he brought into 
the service. He magnified his humble office ; saw in it 
something great and splendid ; beheld in himself the spring 
of the whole machine ; and identified himself with the success 
of the House. You would think, to listen to him, that he 
had achieved the highest ambition of his life in becoming 
a clerk to Mr. Tyrrell, that his weekly stipend of thirty 
shillings was a large and magnificent income, and that the 
Firm was maintained by his own personal exertions. 

Certainly these were not wanting. He was in the office 
first in the morning, and left it the last in the evening. He 
kept the other clerks to their work, not only by example 
but by precept, admonishing them by scraps of proverbial 
philosophy, such as — in the case of one who longed to finish 
and be gone — 

“ Hurry and haste are worsen than waste ; ’* 

or of one who was prone to scamp the work in order to talk, 

“Sure and slow is the way to go ; ” 

while in the case — too common among lawyers’ clerks — of 
^one who came too late to office, he had a verse as apt as if it 
had been a Shakespearian quotation, though I have never 
seen it in Shakespeare. 

‘‘ What,” he would say, do we learn from the poet ? 

“ ‘ Get Tip betimes, and at the dawn of day, 

For health and strength to serve your Master pray. 

Sharp at clock striking at the point of eight, 

Present yourself before the ofl&ce gate,^ 


AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 67 

It should have been nine/’ he would add, but for the 
sake of the rhyme.” 

His eagerness to work was partly counterbalanced by his 
inability to do anything. He knew nothing whatever, after 
years of law work, of the most ordinary legal procedure; he 
could not even be trusted to copy a document correctly. 
And yet he was never idle, never wasting his employers 
time. Mostly he seemed to be ruling lines laboriously in 
red ink, and I often wondered what became of the many 
reams beautified by Augustus with such painful assiduity. 
At other times he would take down old ofiice books, ledgers, 
and so forth, and, after dusting them tenderly, would turn 
over the leaves, brows bent, pencil in hand, as if be were 
engaged in a research of the most vital importance. At all 
events, he did not allow the juniors to waste their time, and, 
as I afterwards found out, was only continued in the service 
of Mr. Tyrrell because he earned his weekly stipend by 
keeping the youngsters at their work, carrying with him 
wherever he went an atmosphere of zeal. 

He had not been always in the present profession. 

“ I have been,” he would say grandly, “ in the Clerical, in 
the Scholastic, and in the Legal. Noble professions all three. 
I began in the Clerical — was a clerk at Grant and Gumption’s, 
where we had — ah ! — a Royal business, and turned over our 
cool Thousands. Thought nothing of Thousands in that 
wholesale house. Mr. Gumption, the junior partner — he 
w^as an affable and kind-spoken man — once took me aside, 
after I had been there two years or so, and spoke to me 
confidentially. ‘ Brambler,’ he said, ^ the fact is this work is 
not good enough for you. That’s where it is ; you’re too good 
for the work we give you. I should say you ought to change 
it for something superior — say in the Commercial Academy 
line, where your abilities would have full scope — full scope.’ 
I thought that advice was very kindly meant, and I took it, 
though it really was a blow to give up sharing in those 
Enormous profits. However, he seemed to know best what 
was to my advantage, and so I retired from Grant and 
Gumption’s with the best of recommendations, and joined 


68 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


Mr. Hezekiah Ryler, B.A., in his Select Academy for Young 
Gentlemen. Perhaps the salary was not so good as might 
have been desired, but the work — there was the great advan- 
tage — the work was splendid. There you are, you know, 
thal’s what it is, in that line — there you are. Dozens of 
possible Shakespeares learning their Latin grammar under 
your direction ; posterity safe to read about you. ^ This 
great man,’ the biographer will say, ^ was educated at the 
Select Academy of Mr. Hezekiah Ryler, B.A., one of whose 
assistants was the zealous Augustus Brambler.’ That thought 
was enough to reconcile me to much that was disagreeable, 
for there are things about the work of an ush — I mean the 
assistant of a Commercial Academy, which some men might 
not like. I was with Mr. Ryler, B.A., for a year, I think, 
when he suggested — his manner was kindness itself — that 
perhaps I should find a more congenial sphere for my talents. 
I gave up the Scholastic, and tried some other line. He 
was so good as to suggest the Legal, and so I tried it. That 
was twenty years ago. Since then I’ve been going back- 
wards and forwards between the Scholastic, the Legal, and 
the Clerical. It’s a very remarkable thing, if you come to 
think of it, to be born with a genius fit for all three pro- 
fessions.” 

He firmly believed himself endowed by Nature with ex- 
ceptional qualities, which fitted him equally for the positions 
of commercial clerk, legal clerk, or schoolmaster, and regarded 
the numerous dismissals which rewarded his labours as so 
many compliments to his energy and worth. In the sense I 
have already explained he was invaluable ; his honesty and 
enthusiasm were contagious, and he never, I am sure, under- 
stood that, owing to some strange fogging of his enthusiastic 
brain, he could do nothing at all in the way in which it ought 
to have been done. When he was in the employment of a 
merchant his figures always came out wrong ; when he was 
^ teacher the boys never learned anything ; and when he was 
a lawyer’s clerk he could only be trusted to rule lines in 
red ink, copy letters in the press, serve a writ, and make a 
show, with a pile of paper, of doing important work. Yet, 


AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 


69 


because the man was well known in the town for his breezy 
enthusiasm, for his integrity, and for the honesty which 
characterised all he did, Augustus Brarnbler had never been 
long without a place. He was now, however, a fixture at 
Mr. Tyrrell’s. 

One evening, after I had been a month or so in the oflSce, 
he invited me, in the finest manner, to take supper at his 
house. Had he bidden me to a lordly banquet the invitation 
could not have been conveyed more grandly. I accepted, 
and walked home with him, presently finding myself in a 
back parlour lighted by a single candle, multiplied by two 
on our arrival. The cloth was laid for supper, and half-a- 
dozen children, from ten or twelve downwards, crowded 
round the bread-winner, and noisily welcomed him home. 
They were all absurdly like their father, their eyes were as 
twinkling, their faces as full of eager enthusiasm; their 
figures as stout. And there was exactly the same regularity 
of diminution in their size that may be remarked in a set of 
Pandean pipes. 

The mother, on the other hand, was thin aud anxious- 
looking. It was easy to see that this poor wan-cheeked and 
careworn creature shared none of her husband’s golden joy 
in the present. 

We sat down at once to the meal, Augustus Brarnbler 
saying grace in an impressive manner. It was a rich, and 
even an unctuous grace, such a grace as might be pronounced 
before a City dinner, thanking the Lord for the many and 
various good things He had provided for His creatures. 
And then, the hearts of all attuned to the solemnity of the 
occasion, he seized the knife, and looked round him with the 
air of one who is about to commence an important work. 

Bread, my children, bread and cheese. Your mother 
will carve the cheese. Mr. Pulaski — I should say, perhaps. 
Count Pulaski ? No. My dear, Mr. Pulaski takes supper 
with us incognito, like a foreign prince. It is not often that 
we receive a nobleman at our simple table. Pray assist Mr. 
Pulaski from the green corner, which is more tasty. Crust, 
Mr. Pulaski? Forty-seven, your elbows are on the table. 


70 


BY CELIA’S AllBOUR. 


Forty-six, calm your impatience. That boy, Mr. Pulaski, 
will carry through life the effects of -the fatal year in which 
he was born.” 

While he talked, he went on distributing crust and crumb 
with the same vigour with which he was wont to rule the 
red ink lines. 

I ventured to ask if the children had no Christian names. 

It is only their father’s way,” said the mother. They 
have names like any other Christians, but I don’t think they 
know them themselves.” 

Augustus — the children being now all helped — sat back 
in his chair, and waved his hand with importance. 

My own theory,” he explained, formed even before I 
married, while I was in the Clerical. Matured while in the 
Scholastic, where I had access to works of philosophy, includ- 
ing the first book of Euclid, and to works of biography, 
including Cornelius Nepos. Published, if I may use the ex- 
pression, while in the Legal. It is this, Mr. Pulaski. Child- 
hood catches measles and whooping-cough, and shakes them 
off ; but a child never shakes off the influences — Forty-eight, 
if you do not obey your sister you shall go to bed — of the 
year in which it was born. My eldest,” he said, pointing to 
the tallest of his family, a girl, was born in ’44. She is 
therefore predisposed to poetry.” 

I did not ask why, but the girl, a pretty child of twelve, 
blushed and looked pleased. 

Her brother. Forty-five,” Augustus continued, is rest- 
less and discontented. That is easily explained if you think 
of the events of that year. A tendency, my boy, which you 
will have to combat during life. Like Asthma.” 

‘‘ When we come to Forty-six,” he went on, what can we 
expect ? The Famine Year. The appetite of that boy would 
strain the finances of a Rothschild.” 

Forty-six, who was a healthy, rosy-cheeked boy, with no 
outward marks of the great Famine upon his fat little figure, 
was working his way diligently through a great crust of 
bread and cheese. He looked up, laughed, and went on 
eating. 


AtJGtrSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 


71 


Forty-seven/' — pointing to a little girl, — the- year of 
calm. The calm before the storm. The next boy is Forty- 
eight. Ah ! the year of rebellion. He is a boy who questions 
authority. If that boy does not take care to struggle 
with his tendency, I should not be surprised, when he 
grows up to find him throwing doubt upon the Thirty-nine 
Articles ” 

0 Augustus ! ” cried his wife. 

1 should not, indeed, my dear. Forty-nine is gone to 
bed. So is Fifty. So is Fifty-tw^o.’* 

I was afraid to ask after Fifty-one, for fear there had been 
a loss, but I suppose the question showed in my face, be- 
cause the family faces instantly clouded over. 

We never had a Fifty-one,” said Augustus sorrowfully. 

His wife sighed, and the little girls put their handker- 
chiefs to their eyes. Forty-six took advantage of the general 
emotion to help himself to another piece of bread. 

No Fifty-one,” Augustus sighed. It was our unlucky 
fate. What a boy that Fifty-one would have been ! All the 
wealth and genius of the world came to the front that year. 
I even wish, sometimes, that he had been twins.” 

We were all deeply touched, nor did it occur to me till 
afterwards that we were lamenting over a mere solution in 
the chain of annual continuity. 

But talking is dry work,” resumed Augustus, — taking 
up a brown jug, one of those jolly old jugs, with a hunt upon 
them in relief, that are only now to be seen in the National 
Club — and bestowing an Anacreontic smile upon his family. 
‘‘ What have we here, boys and girls, eh ? What have we ? ” 
— as if there were an infinite choice of drinks in that house. 
He poured out a glass, holding it up to the light, turning it 
about, and critically catching the colour at the proper angle. 

Clear as a bell — sparkling as champagne. Let us taste it. 

Toast and water, my children — aha ! Toast and water 

■ — and — the — very — best — I ever tasted.” 

We had glasses round, and all smacked our lips over the 
nasty concoction, and he went on in his enthusiastic strain. 

‘^It is a splendid business, the Legal. We are making — 


72 


BY CELTA’S ABBOUK. 


not to betray the confidence of the house, only we are here 
all friends — we are actually making more than two hundred 
pounds a month ; think of that, children, Two — Hundred — 
Pounds — a month. Fifty pounds a week — eight pounds six 
shillings and eightpence every working day. Nearly fifteen 
shillings an hour — threepence a minute ! ” 

All the children gave a great gasp. At the moment they 
firmly believed their father to be personally in receipt of this 
fine income. Poor little shabby boys and girls, with their 
darned and patched clothes, their bread and cheese banquets, 
and their toast and water. It was, indeed, a splendid income 
that their father enjoyed. 

Supper ended, the children went off to bed. Then we put 
out the candles, not to waste light, and sat round the open 
window for half an hour, for it was a warm night, talking. 

At least Augustus Brambler talked. And I began to see 
what an atmosphere of imaginary ease the man lived and 
moved. His social position was, in his own eyes, an enviable 
one; his abilities were recognised; his future was one of 
steady advance; his children were well fed, well dressed, 
and well educated; his poor wife as happy as himself. 

From time to time I heard a footstep overhead. 

‘‘ It is Herr Raumer. We allow him to occupy our first 
floor,” Augustus explained grandly. He was not by any 
means anxious to hide the fact, that he had a lodger who 
paid the whole of the rent, but it was his way of putting it. 

I knew Herr Raumer by sight, because he came a good 
deal to Mr. Tyrrell’s office. He was a German — a very big 
man, tall and stout, with a white moustache — a great mass 
of perfectly white hair, of the creamy whiteness which does 
not convey the impression of age or decay, and had a tread 
like a cat for lightness. He walked as upright as a soldier, 
wore blue spectacles out of doors, and had a curious voice, 
very deep with a rasp in it. But as yet I had never spoken 
to him. 

He is our lodger,” said Mrs. Brambler. And he gives 
us a deal of trouble with his veal cutlets.” 

Eats them with prunes,” said Augustus. 


THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 


n 

And complains of his tea. But he pays his bill every 
week, and what we should do without him I am sure I do 
not know. He is a very regular man. He has dinner at six, 
and smokes his pipe till half-past ten. Then he goes to bed. 
Where is Ferdinand, my dear?” 

At work in his room. But it is almost his time.” 

As he spoke the door opened, and Ferdinand Brambler 
came in. It was almost too dark to see him, but I knew his 
face, having seen it about the streets as long as I could 
remember. He was very much like his brother, being short, 
smooth cheeked, and inclined to be stout, but he had not 
the same look of eager zeal. That was replaced by an expres- 
sion of the most profound wisdom. And he had a habit of 
throwing his head backwards, and gazing into the sky, 
which I understood later on. 

I rose to go because it was past ten. As Augustus led 
me out of the room I heard Mrs. Brambler ask anxiously — 

‘‘ What have you done to-day, Ferdinand ?” 

‘‘ A leg of mutton,” he replied in a sepulchral voice. 
“ And I think heeling and soling for one of the children’s 
boots besides.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 

I CONTINUED my acquaintance with Augustus Brambler 
after I left Mr. Tyrrell’s office. The atmosphere of that 
place very soon, as I have explained, became unbearable to 
me. The tips of my fingers began to feel as if they were 
made of parchment, which, as Cis confessed, would be bad 
for playing. In those days, too, clerks always stuck their 
pens behind their ears, a practice to which I could never 
reconcile myself. The association of that beautiful and 
delicate organisation the ear, the only avenue of the sixth 
sense, the appreciation of music, with quills and legal forms, 
was revolting. Then what harmonies can be got out of the 
scraping of pens upon paper? The wind in the trees one 
can understand ; and the waves by the shore \ and the purling 


74 


w celiacs Auuom . 


of a brook ; but the scratching of steel, which you hardly 
perceive at first, but which makes itself heard with a strident 
noise which after a time becomes out of all proportion to the 
size of the instrument, who is to become reconciled to that ? 
As an instrument of torture, I can conceive nothing worse 
than a room full of pens all at work together. 

Old Wassielewski, who after nearly effacing himself during 
the schooldays was beginning to take a new interest in my pro- 
ceedings, approved of my giving up the law. That a Pulaski 
should be a clerk in a lawyer’s office was a blot upon the 
scutcheon ; that he should become an actual practising lawyer 
was an abandonment of everything. When my destiny came 
to me in the shape of music-lessons, he was good enough to 
signify approval, on the ground that it would do for the short 
time I should want to work for money. I paid small atten- 
tion to his parenthetical way of looking at life — all the Poles 
lived in this kind of parenthesis, waiting for the downfall of 
Russia, carrying on their little occupations, which lasted them 
till death allowed their souls to return to Poland, under the 
belief that it was only for a time. The Captain, however, 
deserved more respectful attention. He had small admira- 
tion for writing in any form ; was accustomed to confound 
the highest works of genius with the commonest quill- 
driving ; quoted an old acquaintance of the ward-room who 
once wrote a novel, and never held his head up afterwards ; 

Sad business, Laddy. Half- pay at forty.” 

As for giving music-lessons, the Captain was perplexed. 
To play on any instrument whatever seemed to him a waste 
of a man — at the same time there was no doubt in his own 
mind that I was only half a man. And when he clearly 
understood that I did not propose to lead a procession of 
drunken sailors like poor old Wassielewski, or to play the 
fiddle at a soldiers’ free-and-easy, he gave in. 

Have your own way, Laddy. Jingle the keys and make 
other people jingle. There’s sense in a song like ‘ The Death 
of Nelson ’ or ‘ Wapping Old Stairs ’ — and those you never 
care to play. But have your own way.” 

Gradually, the Captain came to see some of the advantages 


TfiE trNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 


75 


of the profession. “ You give your lesson, take your money, 
and go. So much work and so much pay. No obligation on 
either side. And your time to yourself.” 

It was evident to 'me, as soon as I began to give lessons, 
that I was engaging myself for the rest of my life to become 
a music master. I became a music master, because there 
was really nothing else for me at which I could earn my 
bread. Teaching of any other kind would have been intoler- 
able, if only for the fact of my unlucky figure, ^sop, himself 
the most philosophical of hunchbacks, would have trembled 
at the thought of facing a class of boys — that age which La 
Fontaine says is without pity. But to sit for an hour beside 
a girl playing exercises while the mild- eyed governess played 
propriety was different. So I gave up everything except the 
piano and the organ, and started in practice as a teacher of 
the pianoforte. As Nature had given me a reasonably good 
pipe, I engaged myself at the same time to teach singing. 

I was eighteen then, perhaps too young to take upon my- 
self the responsibility of teaching. But pupils came to me, 
and in a few months I was happily beyond the want of any 
further help from the Captain. People invited me to give 
lessons from different motives ; some because they thought 
that a Pole would take their girls at half the price of ordinary 
professors — in the same way, after the Commune of 1871, the 
friends of the exiles got them pupils on the ground that they 
would teach French for a shilling an hour ; some came to me 
because I was young, and they wanted to boast that they 
were encouraging rising genius ; a few, no doubt, because 
they really thought I could play well and teach their 
daughters. One lady who had a select boarding and day 
school — she dressed in black cotton velvet, and bound her 
brows with a black ribbon, as if to compress and control the 
gigantic intellect beneath — engaged my services, as I after- 
wards learned, in order that she might announce on her cards 
that music was taught at Cape St. Vincent House (established 
1780) by the young, unfortunate, and talented Polish noble- 
man, Count Ladislas Pulaski.” But as there is no possible 
romance about a lad of five feet nothing, with long arms, 


76 


BY CELIA’S ABBCUR 


crooked back, and round shoulders, parents who came from a 
distance, allured by the “unfortunate foreign nobleman,” 
were not allowed to see me. I found out the thing after a 
time, and was foolish enough, beiug then quite young, to 
throw up the engagement in a rage quite befitting my illus- 
trious descent. Afterwards I learnt to behave with patience 
when I was received, as always happened, with a certain 
deference; but I really think that English people did not 
grovel before a title so abjectly twenty years ago as they 
do now— and I grew accustomed to overhear the familiar 
whisper : 

“ A Count, my dear, in his own country, and here too, if he 
chooses to enjoy the title, of most distinguished Polish family.” 

“ Enjoy the title.” What a wonderful expression ! Does 
a Duke awake in the morning and begin to smack his lips 
when a valet says “ Your Grace ” ? Does he stand before 
his title as before a picture, catching it in different lights? 
Does he turn the name about as a jewel of many facets, 
pleasing his eye with the lustre ? I have tried to imagine 
all the sensual delights possible to be got out of an acknow- 
ledged Countship, were one independent enough to bear it 
openly, and I have always failed. 

My lessons were given in the morning, so that I had the 
more time for Celia. Long before this I had become a son 
of the house at the Tyrrells’. I came and went unnoticed ; 
it was not thought necessary to improve the family tea or 
supper on my account; no cakes and muffins were provided, 
and the decanters were not produced in my honour. That 
was very pleasant. Also it was an understood thing that I 
was Celia’s companion, guardian, duenna, watch dog — any- 
thing. “It is a great comfort,” said her mother, “to feel 
that she is with Ladislas. He is so steady.” 

In those days there were no choral societies, madrigal 
unions, or part-singing in our town. Girls sang duets, but 
youug men seldom took any trouble to cultivate their voices, 
and unless sometimes when, under pressure, they attempted 
ambitious things set for high tenor voices, like “ Good-bye, 
Sweetheart,” or “ Ever of Thee,” wreaking a wicked will upon 


THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 


77 


time and tune, they never sang at all. Musical young men, 
as they were called, were looked upon with a little disfavour 
as likely to turn out badly. Therefore it was a novelty in 
our small circle when Celia and I sang duets. 

She learned to play, not brilliantly — perhaps from some 
defect in my teaching power — but softly and delicately, as if 
she loved what she played. She had the power of bringing 
out fresh sweetnesses, such as I had never felt in my own 
playing of the same piece. It is so always in the highest 
music. Play it a hundred times, exhaust, as you think, 
every chord of passion, yearning, faith, prayer, and hope, 
teach yourself to believe that it is a landscape which you 
have studied under a thousand effects of light and shade 
until you know its every possible aspect. Another plays it. 
Lo ! on every side you discern hitherto undiscovered glades 
of sweet greenery arched by great cathedral aisles in which 
birds sing endless songs of praise ; and clear before you, 
ere while so dark and doubtful, lies the path which leads 
to the higher world, a sunny lane planted by loving hands 
with flowers, bordered with honeysuckle and meadowsweet, 
stretching broad and bright to the Gates of Emerald. The 
best thing about being a musician is that you can under- 
stand the music of others. 

I encouraged Celia to play only from the best composers, 
because, while we have the best music to teach us, and the 
best poetry to speak our thoughts for us, it seems so great a 
sin to waste ourselves upon lower and ignoble things. 

In course of time I began to essay little things of my own : 
feeble flights, imitations, echoes of the masters. Celia played 
them, praised them, and then went back to the masters. 
This showed me what a mere apprentice I was. For that 
matter I am not yet out of my articles. 

Sometimes, after playing one of my own studies, it would 
please us to see Mrs. Tyrrell waking up out of the doze 
in which she spent most of her afternoons, and nod her head 
placidly — 

That is a very pretty piece of Mozart, Celia. I always 
liked that movement.” 


CELIACS ARBOtTR. 


7 § 

Or : “ That has always been my favourite in Mendelssohn.’^ 

Why is it that people should take shame to themselves 
for not understanding music, and cover themselves with 
ignominy by the pretence? No one is ashamed to say that 
he does not know Hebrew or mathematics. And yet, unless 
one goes through the regular mill, how can music be known 
any more than mathematics ? 

Mrs. Tyrrell reminded me of those fakeers, or yogis, who 
attain to Heaven by perpetually gazing upon a particular toe. 
She spent her afternoons in a motionless contemplation of 
the work which she held in her hands. From time to time 
her eyes closed, but only for a few moments, when the lazy 
eyelid lifted, and the limpid eyes, which were like the eyes 
of fallow-deer for absence of care, rested again upon the work. 
A gentle, easy, motionless woman, who could not understand 
her bright and eager daughter. A good woman, too, and a 
kind mother, always careful that her Celia had the best. 

We were at that age when the soul is charged with uncertain 
longings. Youth is the time when poetry has the greatest 
power over us. There are so many things we have to say ; 
our thoughts fly here and there like a young bird in early 
summer, not aimlessly, but without control ; the brain has 
not been forced into a single groove, and hardened by long 
continuance in that groove; the ways of the world are all 
open. There is no relief in speech, because, for such thoughts, 
the tongue is powerless. Therefore one falls back upon poetry. 
It makes me sad now to think of the days when our minds, 
saturated with the winged words of Keats, Byron, or Words- 
worth, were as full of clouded visions, sunlit, mist-coloured, 
crossed with gleam of glory, as any picture by Turner. 
Where are they gone, the dreams of youth ? ‘‘ Ou est la 

neige d’autan ? ” For if, in the after years, one such vision 
comes, evoked for a few moments by the breath of some 
mighty music, it is but a passing gleam. The fierce noon- 
tide light of midday soon disperses the clouds, and gathers 
up the mists. Perhaps, when evening falls upon us, they 
will come again, those glimpses of the better world. 

We wandered hand-in-hand, a pair of dreaming children, 


THE U.\ FORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 


79 


or sat in Celia’s Arbour, gazing out upon the broad bosom 
of the harbour. FTorn the moat below us, which was the 
practice-ground of young buglers, trumpeters, and drummers, 
there came blown about by the breeze, the reveille^ the call 
to retreat, the charge, and the eager rub-dub of the drum, 
which somehow acts so strongly upon the fighting nerves of 
the soldier. And every day in that busy port there was the 
firing of salutes, the solemn Dead March for a regimental 
funeral, with the quick rattle of muskets over his grave, the 
band of a regiment marching through the streets, and the 
booming of artillery practice, sounds to remind us of the 
world outside, to which we did not belong, but which fired 
our imagination. 

And many kinds of life. At the end of the grassy meadow 
before our feet was a gate leading into the upper end of the 
Dockyard. Through the gate streamed the Liberty men, like 
schoolboys at play. And after them, going along as slowly 
as they possibly could, would be sometimes driven a file of 
’wretched convicts, spade in hand, to dig and entrench in 
some of the Government works. There was a horrible 
fascination in looking at the convicts. What crimes had 
they committed? Why were they unhappy above other 
men who had sinned and not been found out ? What miser- 
able mothers and sisters mourned somewhere their degrada- 
tion? How could they bear the grey uniform of disgrace, 
the horrible companionship of criminals, the wretched life on 
the hulks? Which were the men whose time was almost 
up, and how would they meet their release, and the return 
to a world which for ever afterwards would scorn them ? 

Sentiment all this, perhaps ; it is the unhappy thing about 
us all when we pass into the work time, and youth’s brief 
holiday is over, that we have no more sentiment, which is 
often but another name for sympathy. Men try to crystallise 
themselves into critics, and therefore put themselves as much 
as they can outside the emotions. That is what makes poets, 
novelists, and painters hate and detest the niMier of critic. 

Meantime, no news of Leonard. We knew that there 
could be none, and yet w^e hoped. Leonard, of course, 


8o 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


would keep his word. He would not write for five years ; 
but yet, perhaps, in some indirect way, there might come 
news about him. 

I wonder in what way, Laddy ? Of course he will be 
successful. Sometimes I think he is in London, writing 
poetry. Suppose he is already a great poet, everybody 
buying his wonderful verses ? ” 

This was an extreme view to take, but then we were quite 
ignorant of publishing, and thought, perhaps, that a poet 
sprang ready-made into existence and popularity. However, 
on cooler thoughts, the idea of Leonard taking to poetry did 
not commend itself to me. 

He may have gone to the Bar, Laddy, and be a great 
advocate.’’ 

It certainly did occur to me that advocates are seldom 
great at one or two and twenty. 

‘‘Or perhaps he may have become a merchant prince. 
Not a small trader, you know, but a great man, with fieets 
of ships and armies of clerks.” 

We breathed faster, and looked at each other with flushed 
cheeks. What success was too great for our hero ? 

“ Laddy,” Celia went on, sagely, “ we must not choose, 
because we might be disappointed. Then Leonard would see 
the disappointment in our faces, and that would hurt him. 
We must wait — and hope. Patience, Laddy.” 

“ Patience, Cis.” 

It was some proof of the strength of Leonard’s character 
that everybody believed in his success. This young hero had 
gone forth to conquer the world. There would be no diffi- 
culties for him. Celia and I naturally looked upon him, our 
elder playfellow, with the respect of those who had been 
children with him, and younger than himself. This kind of 
feeling never dies out. The opinions of childhood throw out 
roots which spread all through the after years, and cling 
round the heart of eighty as much as round the heart of ten. 
And to this day I regard Leonard, just as I used to, as a 
being quite superior to myself. 

The Captaift ope^lj^ spoke of him as one who had gone 


THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 


Si 


into the world to show what a man might do in it. Mr. 
Tyrrell, who was not naturally an enthusiastic man, would 
congratulate the Captain on the success of the boy. And 
Mrs. Tyrrell — how that good lady managed to be infected by 
the general enthusiasm I do not know — quoted Leonard as 
an example, when she felt inclined to moralise, of what 
religion and industry will effect for young people. What 
she thought they had done for Leonard I do not know. 
Perhaps she pictured him in a Bishop’s apron. As for Mrs. 
Jeram, who also fell into the popular delusion, she openly 
thanked Providence for bringing such a boy into the world. 
She always knew, she said, by those infallible signs which 
only experienced persons can detect, that the baby — mean- 
ing Leonard — was going to be a great man. 

There were others, too. The Eev. Mr. Broughton, when 
he met the Captain or myself, would invite us to go home 
with him and drink Leonard’s health in a glass of curious 
brown sherry, adding that he always knew that boy would 
get on. And Mrs. Pontifex once warned us solemnly against 
the pride that comes of worldly success. 

All this was very delightful, and helped to keep us in a 
glow of pride and pleasure which made the long five years 
pass away quickly. There was only one discordant voice. 
It came from Herr Eaumer, who lodged with the Bramblers, 
whose acquaintance I had now made. 

You think,” he said, in his German accent, that this— 
what do you call him ? — this boy has become a great man. 
What do you know about it ? Nothing. What can a boy 
do without money and without friends? Nothing. He is 
some poor clerk in a merchant’s office ; he is a shopman 
behind a counter ; he is an usher in a school ; he has gone to 
Australia, and is a wretched shepherd. What else can a poor 
boy become ? Great man ! Bah ! you are all fools together, 
Ladislas Pulaski. But go on, go on, if it will make you 
happy ; go ori till you find out the truth,” 


82 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOPES AND FEARS. 

I N the year 1854 began the Russian war. To me, because 
in those days I read few papers and took small interest in 
politics, the first signs of the impending struggle came from 
the Polish Barrack. Here, from the autumn of 1853, there 
reigned an unwonted animation. Letters and foreign news- 
papers were received daily ; secret information was whispered 
about ; strangers came down from London ; the men gathered 
themselves into little knots and whispered. The most eager 
of them all was Wassielewski. He was transformed; he 
bore himself erect, with head thrown back; those deep-set 
eyes of his lost their look of expectant melancholy, and were 
bright with hope ; he even seemed to have lost his limp. It 
was easy for me to understand that all this preliminary joy 
meant another rising in Poland. The weakness of Russia 
was to be the opportunity of my compatriots. In this quiet 
retreat they were plotting and conspiring. I came and went 
among them as I pleased, known to every one. They did not 
tell me their plans, but I observed that as they talked their 
eyes from time to time turned to me, and I discerned that 
they were discussing whether I should be made a conspirator 
with the rest and a sharer in their visions. I understood — 
it was only part of the general humiliation of a hunchback — 
that they were undecided whether one so useless physically 
could not be of use in the way of his name ; whether, in fact, 
it was worth while to sacrifice my life, as well as their own, 
because I was Ladislas Pulaski. For the first time I felt a 
Pole indeed, in the strange thought that perhaps, after all, 
I, too, might be called upon to strike my blow, such as it 
was, for Polish freedom. 

I had been kept strangely ignorant up to this time, and 
even later, of my own family history and of the circumstances 
under which I was brought to England. I knew that I was 
the son of a Polish noble ; that my father perished in one of 
the obscure and hopeless village risings which took place 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


83 


some years after the great insurrection of 1831, and were too 
local to be recorded in contemporary history ; also, that it was 
old Wassielewski who brought me, a mere infant, in his own 
arms, safely to England. When I asked the Captain for 
further information, he put off the question. When, as a 
boy, I asked Wassielewski, he patted my head kindly and 
bade me wait. I understood, therefore, very early, that there 
was more to be told in somebody’s good time. 

I believe that it was by the Captain’s wish that I was kept 
from the knowledge of things which might have maddened 
my boyish brain; because I can hardly give Wassielewski 
credit for an act of forbearance towards the Romanoff name 
whicli lasted twenty years. 

In the spring of 1854, when it became quite certain that 
Russia would have to face the strongest combination of allies 
ever formed, the day of deliverance seemed to be dawning 
for Poland. It was a delusive hope, as we know, because 
Prussia and Austria, participes criminis^ could not look on in 
silence while the Russian part of the divided land freed itself 
and set a bad example to their own Poles. I have some- 
times dreamed an impossible thing — that Germany, which 
pretends to be the most advanced outpost of civilisation, and 
Austria, which boasts of her easy rule, might some day join 
together and restore their share in the unholy partition to 
Liberty. What madness possessed them ever to dismember 
that ancient kingdom of independent Slavs, which could 
never threaten Germany, and stood as a bulwark against the 
barbaric Muscovite ? But it was a foolish dream. Nations 
never voluntarily make reparation. Unto the fourth and even 
the fifth generation they pay for crimes in their children’s 
blood ; but they do not make atonement for the sin. 

While the hopes of the exiles were highest, Wassielewski 
began to tell me tales of Polish daring and Russian 
cruelty. 

You are a Pole,” he used to finish his narrative; re- 
member always that you are a Pole. You owe yourself to 
your country. It may be your duty, as v;ell as mine, to die 
in her cause. The day is coming when you will have to act.” 


84 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


But as yet, nothing of my father. 

In those days, too^ Herr Raumer first began to talk to me. 
I met him at Mr. TyrrelBs office, and he invited me to visit 
him at his lodgings, which were, as I have explained, the 
first floor of Augustus Brambler’s house. 

Here he received me with great cordiality. Indoors he 
removed the blue spectacles, which he habitually wore in the 
streets, and showed a pair of keen bright eyes which certainly 
did not look as if they required any shelter from the light. 
His room was furnished with great simplicity, like the quar- 
ters of an officer on active service — a table, a sideboard, one 
or two chairs — his own being a wooden armchair — a slip of 
carpet before the fire — a pianoforte — constituted all that his 
simple wants required. On the wall hung one or two weapons, 
a pair of rapiers crossed, a rifle, and a brace of pistols. On 
the mantelshelf were two or three pipes, and a cigar-case. 
In the open sideboard I observed a goodly row of bottles, 
which I rightly judged from their shape and colour of the 
glass to contain German wine. Herr Raumer drank every 
day a bottle of this for dinner and another bottle before going 
to bed. He had one of those heads which are never the worse 
for wine, however much they swallow. 

I felt very small sitting opposite this big man with the 
keen eyes which looked straight through me, his great head 
crowned with a mass of grey hair, his face, which looked like 
the face of one who commanded men habitually, adorned 
with the heavy white moustache and the long white eye- 
brows, the strong and resolute chin, the upright pose, the 
very strength in the man’s figure — all this impressed me. 

He saw that I was impressed, and I think it pleased him. 

He began to talk at once about Poland. He had long, he 
said, felt deeply for the sorrows and sufferings of my unfortu- 
nate country. Unhappily, as I knew, he was a German, and 
in Germany there were some sympathies which were not to 
be openly expressed. If a German gentleman, he said, 
desired liberty of the Press, freedom of discussion, elevation 
of the masses, liberal institutions, the restoration of Poland, 
or any kindred thing, it behoved him to be silent and possess 


HOPES AND PEAKS. 


85 


his soul in patience. Here in England, and the doors closed, 
alone with a Polish gentleman, he could speak his mind. 
The fact was, the condition of things not only in Ptussia, but 
also in Austria and Prussia, was deplorable. He saw before 
him one who had suffered in the cause — I thought afterwards 
that my own exertions in the cause as a year-old baby hardly 
entitled me to speak as a martyr — he could tell me cases of 
Russian cruelty which would make my blood boil. 

There is,’’ he said, thank Heaven ! left to mankind the 
sacred duty of rebellion. The Czar knows of this, and 
trembles on his throne. From generation to generation the 
duty is handed down. Even now,” his voice sank to a 
whisper, even at this very moment, it is whispered that 
the Poles are meditating another insurrection. Russia’s 
weakness is Poland’s opportunity. While her energies are 
all bent upon the war, the Poles will rise again, and proclaim 
the Republic of Warsaw. But of course your friends in the 
Polish Barrack tell you all that is going on.” 

Indeed they do not,” I replied, with a jealous feeling 
that if they did I should hardly be justified in retailing their 
information to one who, however much he might sympathise 
with the cause, was certainly not a Pole. 

imagine,” he said, “but of course I know nothing, that 
an attempt will be made this very year. It seems a favour- 
able moment. The Polish exiles will return to join in the 
movement. It is devoutly to be hoped that they might 
succeed. And so Wassielewski tells you nothing. It seems 
hardly fair.” 

“ Nothing.” 

It did not strike me till afterwards that it was strange 
that Herr Raumer should know anything of Wassielewski. 

“ Ah ! he thinks the time has not yet come. And yet you 
are seventeen, you are strong, and can handle a gun. It is 
not well of Wassielewski. Courage, my boy. I prophecy 
that many a Russian shall fall by your hand yet.” 

He always spoke on the assumption that another outbreak 
was to come, that I was to take part in it, and that the Poles 
were keeping the knowledge of my own past from me. The 


86 


BY CELIACS AKBOUR. 


prospect had its charm, even, to me, the peaceful musician. 
I do believe that, hunchback as I was, I should have played 
the part of a man had Fate willed that I was to revisit my 
native country. 

He changed the subject and presently began talking about 
music. Then he sat at the pianoforte and began to run his 
fingers up and down the keys. He could not play, but he 
possessed — many men do — an almost instinctive power of 
picking out melodies, and filling them with simple chords. 
He asked me if I knew the German national airs, and then 
he began to sing them. We all know them now, these 
simple lieder with the tears in every bar — but twenty years 
ago they were not so well known. He sang them senti- 
mentally, and if it had not been for that strange rasp in the 
voice, musically. The tears came into his eyes as he sang. 

The sorrows,’’ he said, of other people are so very sad — 
at a distance. Seen close, they annoy.” 

*But the weeks passed on, and nothing was done. As hope 
changed to doubt the faces of the Poles grew despondent, 
Wassielewski left off telling his stories of Polish valour; he 
lost his look of eager expectation, and he hung his head, as 
before, with dejected air and mournful deep-set eyes. 

It is all over,” said Herr Raumer one evening. Your 
life is safe, friend Ladislas. For so much you ought to be 
thankful. And the Russians need not fear your rifle for 
another year or two. No doubt,” he added with a gentle 
sneer, “ they are thankful, too.” 

‘‘ Why is it all over ? ” 

‘‘ Because Austria and Prussia will not permit revolt. 
Have they not got Poles of their own ? ” 

I began to declaim about the wickedness of Governments 
and statesmen. 

Herr Raumer heard me politely. 

Then he filled another pipe, leaving the old one to cool, 
drank two glasses of hock, and replied slowly — 

Quite true, Ladislas Pulaski. No doubt at your age I 
should have thought, and perhaps said, the same thing. The 
wickedness of diplomatists is a reproach to modern civilisation. 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


87 


Yet, if you consider the matter, you will acknowledge that 
without their wickedness, there would be really very little in 
life worth having. No indignation, no sermons, no speakers 
at meetings, no societies. What a loss to Great Britain!” 

We could do without societies,” I said. 

A great deal more would go if political and other wicked- 
ness are to go. There would be no armies, no oflScers, no 
lawyers, no doctors, no clergymen. The newspapers would 
have nothing to say, because the course of the world could be 
safely predicted by any one. All your learned professions 
would be gone at a blow.” 

I laughed. 

“ Music and painting would remain.” 

But what would the painters do for subjects ? You can’t 
create any interest in the picture of a fat and happy family. 
There would be no materials for pathos. No one would die 
under a hundred ; and, as he would be a good man, there 
would be no doubt about his after fate. No one would be 
ill. All alike would be virtuous, contented, happy — and 
dull” 

‘^Why dull?” 

Why dull ? Because there would be nothing left to fight, 
to fear, to guard against. Dull ? ” he took his pipe from his 
mouth, and yawned. Dull ? The human brain cannot con- 
ceive of a more appalling, of a more sleepy dulness than that 
of the world gone good.” 

At least, the rulers of the world are supposed to be always 
trying to bring that end about.” 

Supposed, my young friend ? Yes, by you, and enthusi- 
astic young gentlemen like yourself. Dull ? Why if you 
think of it, you would not even have your virtues left, because 
there would be no need for them. Bravery, self-denial, 
patience, resignation, patriotism, thrift— these would all 
vanish, because there would be no longer any occasion for 
them. No, Ladislas Pulaski, the wickedness of diplomatists 
keeps the world alive. There are always plenty of fools to 
shout, fling up their caps, believe everything they are told, 
and go away to get killed. The world go good ? Much as I 


88 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUE. 


deplore the wickedness of wicked man, I trust that general 
goodness may not happen in my time.” 

Herr Raumer was right. There was no Polish rising. But 
our little colony was broken up and thinned by the departure 
of many of the exiles. Some went out on secret service ; 
some fought in the Turkish lines: a few volunteered in the 
English and French armies ; some joined the German Legion. 
But Wassielewski stayed on, sadder, more hollow-eyed than 
ever. 

One day, about the beginning of the war, I was saluted in 
the street — it was on the Hard — by a tall and good-looking 
young sailor, in his naval rig, the handiest ever invented. 

Hope you're well, sir.” 

It was Jem Hex. 

I shook hands with him. He told me that he was going 
aboard the hiipdrieiise for the Baltic Sea Fleet, and that they 
hoped to have a lively time. 

The Baltic Fleet ! The war was a real thing, then. And 
good-natured Jem was going to have the honour of fighting 
for his country. 

He seemed to take it very easily ; and he had all the old 
sea-dog's confidence in thrashing the enemy. 

I asked him after Moses. 

Moses,” he replied, in a hesitating way. Moses — well 
— Mr. Pulaski — if I were you, sir — I don’t think I’d ask 
about Moses. He hasn’t turned out — not what you might 
call a credit.” 

One figure I missed, among others, from the row of 
wooden-legged veterans on the beach. 

It was that of Mrs. Jeram’s erring husband. The old man 
fell off his stool one night, outside his wife’s house, in a fit. 
She took him in and nursed him till he died. So they were 
reconciled. And then Mrs. Jeram came to be housekeeper to 
the Captain. 


WAR. 


CHAPTER X. 


WAR. 


AE ! I was eighteen at the close of the long, long 



vv canker of Peace,” as Tennyson called it — why does 
every poet try to be a Tyrtaous ? And why should holy Peace 
be called cankerous ? The country put on its rusty armour, 
sharpened its swords, and sent out aged generals brought 
up in old traditions of Peninsular times. When news came 
of the first Turkish successes at Oltenitza, and we read of the 
gallant defence of Silistria, one began to realise that we were 
actually in the piping times of war. For my own part, I was 
pleased and excited, independently of my private, and Polish, 
reasons for excitement. It seemed to my foolish understand- 
ing that the forty years since Waterloo, those years in which 
the world had done so much in a quiet and peaceful way to 
make wars more bloody, had been quite wasted and thrown 
away. The making of railways, the construction of steamers, 
the growth of great armaments, were things done slowly and 
without dramatic tableaux. Now what the world likes, in 
contemplating the never-ending human comedy, is that from 
time to time the curtain should fall for a few moments on a 
thrilling and novel situation. This we were going to have. 

It is splendid, Ois,” I cried, with the latest war news in 
my hand. Splendid. Now we are going to live in history. 
We too shall hear hymns to the God of battles; we shall 
understand the meaning of the war fever ; we shall know 
how men feel who live in a time of battles, sieges, and 
victories.” 

Celia did not respond as I expected to this newly-born 
martial enthusiasm. 

And the soldiers will be killed,” she said sadly. ‘‘The 
poor soldiers. What does war mean to them but death and 
wounds ? ” 

“ And glory, Cis. They die for their country.” 

“ I would rather they lived for their country. Laddy, if 
the new history that we are going to live in is to be like 


90 


BY CELIACS AKBOUR. 


the old, I wish it was over and done with. For the old is 
nothing but the murdering of soldiers. I am sick of reading 
how the world can get no justice without fighting for it.” 

Looked at from Celia’s point of view, I have sometimes 
thought that there is something in her statement. So many 
kings ; so many battles ; so many soldiers fallen on the field 
of honour. Blow the trumpets ; beat the drums ; bring 
along the car of Victory; have a solemn Te Deum ; and 
then sit down and make all things ready for the next 
campaign. 

What good,” this foolish young person went on, does 
the glory of a nameless soldier shot in a field, and buried in 
a trench, do to his mourning people ? I know, Laddy, needs 
must that war come, but let him who appeals to the sword 
die by the sword.” 

When General Fevrier laid low the author of the world’s 
disturbance, and the Poles lamented because their enemy was 
gone before they had had time to throw one more defiance 
in his teeth, I thought of Celia’s words, and they seemed 
prophetic. 

‘‘ Why do the Russians fight the Turks ? ” she went on. 
‘‘What harm have the Turks done to the Russians, or 
Russians to Turks ? ” 

I suggested outraged and oppressed Christians. 

“ Then let the Christians rise and free themselves,” she 
went on, “ and let us help them. But not in the Czar’s way. 
And as for the soldiers, would they not all be far happier at 
home?” 

Nor could any argument of mine alter her opinion on this 
point ; a heresy which strikes at the very root of all wars. 

To be sure, if we read history all through — say the history 
of Gibbon, the most bloodthirsty historian I know — it would 
be difficult to find a single one out of his wars that was 
chosen by the people. “ Now then, you drilled men,” says 
King or Kaiser, “ get up and kill each other.” The Official 
Gazette proclaims the popular enthusiasm, shouting of war- 
cries, and tossing of caps — the value of which we know in 
this critical age. But the people do not get up of their 


WAR. 


91 


own accord. There is a good deal of fighting again in the 
Chronicles of old Froissart, but I remember no mention 
anywhere of popular joy over it. The historian is too honest 
to pretend such nonsense. In fact, it never occurred to him 
that people could like it. They were told to put on their 
iron hats, grasp their pikes, and make the best of things. 
They obeyed with resignation ; their fathers had done the 
same thing; they had been taught that war was one of the 
sad necessities of life — ^that, and pestilence, and the tyranny 
of priests, and the uncertainty of justice; you had to fight 
just as you had to work, or to be born, or to die; the pike 
was an emblem of fate. For wise and mysterious purposes 
it was ordained by Providence that you were to be cuffed and 
beaten by your officers before being poked through the body 
by the iron point of the enemy’s pike. It has been, hitherto, 
impossible for mankind to get out of this mediaeval way of 
thinking; some Continental nations, who believe they are 
quite the advance-guard of civilisation, even go so far as to 
preserve the cuffing to this day as part of their Heaven-sent 
institutions. It is taught in the schools as belonging to the 
Divine Order, and therefore to be taken with resignation. 
At the same time, we need not go so far as to expect actual 
love for cuffing — with desire for more cuffing — from modern 
Prussians, any more than from mediaeval French or English. 

Not one single common soldier, among all the millions 
who make up the rank and file of modern armies, wants to 
go fighting. And yet what a lot of fighting there is ! 

Suppose, some day, when the glorious army on either side 
was ordered to advance, the brave fellows were to sit down 
instead with a cheerful grin, leaving the kings to fight out 
the quarrel in a duel. 

Now and then, things getting really intolerable, the people 
wake up and have a Jacquerie, a Revolution, or a Reforma- 
tion. But that is civil war, the only kind of war which the 
unpatriotic mob really cares about. 

All the world,” said foolish Cis, ‘‘ praying daily for 
peace. And praying for peace since ever they began to pray 
at all. And what has come of it ? ” 


92 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


I do not see much good/’ said the Captain, who took the 
mediaeval view about war, in praying for what you must 
help yourself to. If all the world agreed on peace, there 
would be peace. And then it would be no good having a 
bigger fleet than your neighbour.” 

I try to put my obvious point in a new and striking light : 
that nations who will not sit still, but get up quarrels with 
other nations, ought to have all their arms taken from them. 
Fancy Eussia without an army or a fleet, obliged to live 
peacefully and develop herself! Why, in ten years she 
would be civilised ; and then we should see strange things. 
But my point, however cleverly put, will not convince the 
Captain, whose opinions on the necessity of war are based 
upon the advantages of a superior fleet. 

After all, it is a great thing to be the adopted son of a 
land like this isle of England, which can never again, we 
hope, be made to serve the ambition of kings and priests ; 
never more drive her sons by the thousand to the slaughter- 
house, or her daughters to lamentations and tears, for 
aggrandisement. The only country in Europe of which 
such a boast may be made. 

When will it cease ? When will men be strong enough 
to say, Enough ; we will have no more of your military 
caste ; we will have no more of your great armies ; we will 
never fight again, except to defend ourselves ? ” 

And Eussia to set herself up as the protector of Christians ! 
Eussia to be the advocate of humanity 1 Eussia the champion 
of civilisation I Ask the opinions of Poland on these points ; 
go seek those of Turkestan ; of Circassia ; of Khiva ; of Siberia. 
Call on the Czar and the Court to tell their secret history 
which everybody knows ; on the nobles to lay bare the story 
of their lives ; on the officers to confess their barbaric licence ; 
on the judges and officials to confess their corruption ; on 
the priests to explain how they set the example of a Christian 
life. Call on police, secret agents, spies, ministers, governors, 
and soldiers to speak of Eussia’s Christian virtues in brutal 
beatings, torture of mind as well as body, infamous dela- 
tions, universal bribery, filthy prisons, and inhuman punish- 


WAR. 


93 


ments. That done, wish the arms of Russia success, and 
pray that all the world may become Cossack, and the kings 
of the world imitators of the Czar. 

But I am a Pole, and may be supposed consequently to 
hate Russia. That is a popular error. The Poles do not 
hate Russians. Their qualities, their characteristics, are 
ours, because we are all of one common stock ; as for their 
vices, they are encouraged by the governing class, because 
without the degradation of ignorance and drink they could 
not be depended on, these poor mujiks, to obey orders. We 
only hate the Romanoffs, who are Germans. But we like 
the Russians. And the English people will find out, on that 
day when the great unwieldy empire drops to pieces, and the 
spectre of the Romanoff terror is laid for ever, what good 
qualities there are in Russian, Muscovite, or Pole, and how 
by the aid of the Devil, who invented autocratic rule, the 
good has been perverted into evil. 

But what had the English and the Russian soldier done to 
each other, that they should be made to fight ? 

A most foolish and jealous girl’s question. And yet — and 
yet- 

And yet — it was pitiful to see our brave fellows, full of 
fire and enthusiasm, go down the narrow streets of the town 
to the Dockyard Gates on their way to the East. They 
marched in loose order, headed by the Colonel, the bands 
playing The Girl I left behind me.” The streets were 
lined with the townspeople ; the w’omen crying, some of 
them even kissing the soldiers ; the men waving hats and 
shouting ; the children laughing and running for joy at 
so splendid a spectacle. Among the honest faces of the 
rough and rude soldiers — far rougher, far ruder then than 
now — you could see none that were not lifted proudly, 
flushed with hope. Drill the Muscovite and send him out 
to fight ; he will go, and he will fight as he has been taught, 
a dogged, obedient creature. He asks for no reason, he 
neither questions nor criticises. When he begins to ques- 
tion, the end of the Romanoffs will not be far distant. Drill 
a Frenchman and order him into the field. He goes with a 


94 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


yell and a rusli like a tiger. And he is as dangerous as a 
man-eater. The German, who, more than all men, hates 
soldiering, goes unwilling, patient, sad. He is among other 
men the least pleased to fight. But the Englishman goes 
willingly, quietly, and without shouting. He likes fighting. 
And if he begins he means to go on. 

When the Dockyard Gates closed upon the Adjutant and 
the Doctor, who rode last, men and women alike turned 
away with choking throats and swelling hearts, ashamed to 
shed the tears that stood in their eyes. 

The men were going to fight for their country. Could there be 
a nobler thing than to fight, and for that sacred cause to die ? 

And yet Celia asked, what had Russians and Englishmen 
done to each other that they should fight ? 

Some day, perhaps even in my own time, the pale figure 
of Revolution, red-capped, gaunt, and strong, will stalk into 
the Summer Palace, and bring out the Romanoffs, disturbers 
of the world’s peace, one by one. See,” she will say to the 
onlookers, they are but men, these Czars, two-forked 
radishes, like yourselves. They are not stronger, bigger- 
brained, or longer-lived than you. They are troubled by 
exactly the same passions ; they have no better education 
than the best of you. But they must have war to delude 
ignorant people, and keep them from asking questions. As 
for you eighty millions, you want peace, with the chance of 
growing crops, and enjoying sweet love of wife and children. 
Once get this family with all their friends across the frontier, 
with strict orders that they are not to come back any more, 
and you shall have all that you reasonably want.” 

That is what the eager- faced woman with the Phrygian 
cap said, eighty years ago, to the French, who believed her, 
and proceeded to act in the courage of their convictions. 
They made a mess of it because they expected too much. But 
they set an example, and we have not yet seen the end of 
that example. 

Day after day the tramp of soldiers down the streets, 
infantry, cavalry, artillery, all alike light-hearted, all starting 
on the journey of death as if it were a picnic. 


WAE. 


95 


When the news came of the first fighting we grew less 
tender-hearted, and sent out fresh squadrons with the same 
enthusiasm but fewer tears. The war fever was upon us, 
pulses beat fiercely, we had less thought for the individual 
men and more for the army. We were bound to win some- 
how, and the soldiers went out to win for us. If they fell — 
but we did not think too much, then, about falling. Indi- 
vidual life is only valuable in time of peace. In times of 
war it has a commercial value of its own — life for life, and 
perhaps one life for ten if we are lucky. 

I daresay,” said the Captain one day, that there is a 
Russian way of looking at things, though hang me if I can see 
it. But, mark me, Laddy, unless a man sticks tight as wax 
to his own side, shuts his ears to the other side, won’t hear 
of an argument, that man can’t fight happy. There’s no 
comfort in a battle unless you feel you’re on the Lord’s side. 
Wherefore hang all sea lawyers, and let every man, now, 
hate a Russian as if he were the Devil.” 

To do our red-jackets justice, that is about what they did. 

Besides the long lines of soldiers embarking every week in 
the huge transports, there were the preparation and the 
despatch of the great and splendid Black Sea and Baltic 
Fleets. 

It is something to have lived in a time when such ships 
were to be seen. It is a memory which binds one to the past 
to think of that day, in March 1854, when the Baltic Fleet 
set sail amid the prayers of the nation. Never was so gallant 
a fleet sent forth from any shore, never were shores more 
crowded with those who came to criticise and stayed to cheer. 
We had already — Cis and I among the number — cheered old 
Charley Napier when he walked down the pier to embark on 
his ship, pounding the timbers with his sturdy little legs as 
if they had been so many Russians. To-day he was on board 
the Duke of Wellington^ the biggest ship in the world, a great 
floating fortress mounting a hundred and thirty-one guns, 
built to sail when wind was fair, with a crew of a thousand 
men, and an admiral who meant fighting. No one who ever 
saw that day will forget the departure of the Fleet. It was 


96 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


a fresh and breezy day in March ; the sun came out in occasional 
gleams, and shot long arrows of light athwart the clouds. 
The sea was dark with multitudes of boatS5 yachts, steamers, 
and craft of all kinds ; the shore was black with the thousands 
who sat there watching for the signal to be given. And 
riding at anchor lay the ships on which the fortunes of 
England depended. There was the St, Jean JAcre, of a 
hundred guns ; the Royal George^ of a hundred and twenty — 
she floated over the place where lay the bones of her name- 
sake, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfeldt, when he went 
down with twice four hundred men,’' and almost as many 
women ; the Princess Royal^ of ninety-one guns ; the Im- 
pdrieuse and the Arrogant — I was launched on board the 
Arrogant, and remembered her well — there were, all told, in 
that Baltic Fleet, though all were not gathered together, 
between fifty and sixty ships. Presently we saw the Queen’s 
steamer, the Fairy — the pretty little yacht, with her three 
sloping masts — threading her graceful way swiftly in and out 
of the ships, while the Jack Tars manned the yardarm, and 
cheered till the shore took it up with echoes and the counter- 
cheering of the spectators. When the old men with Nehemiah 
saw the diminished glories of the Second Temple, they lifted 
up their voices and wept. When the old men on our shore 
saw the magnified glories of the Victorian fleet, they lifted 
up their voices and wept, thinking of the days that were 
no more, the breezy battle with a foe who dared to fight, the 
long chase of a flying enemy, the cutting-out, the harvest 
of a score of prizes. This time, with better ships, better 
crews, we were going on a fool’s quest, because all the 
good we did was to keep the Kussians within their port. 
Well, our trade was safe. That was a great thing. The 
ships would go up and down the broad ocean without fear of 
the Russians, because these were all skulking behind Cron- ' 
stadt towers. I am not a Muscov, but a Pole, yet I was 
ashamed for the Russian sailors, who were not allowed to 
strike a blow for their country, while the soldiers were dying 
in thousands, dogged, silent, long-suffering, in obedience to 
the Czar whom they ignorantly worship. 


THE WAR, AND AFTER. 


97 


They sailed, the Queen leading the way. Out flew the 
white canvas, fluttering for a moment in the windy sunshine, 
and then, with set purpose, bellying full before the breeze, 
and marshalling each brave ship to her place in the grand 
procession. 

The Armada passed out of sight, and we all went home. 
The Captain was moved to the extent of a double ration that 
night ; also, he sang a song. And at prayers, he invented 
a new petition of his own for the honour and safety of the 
Fleet. There were occasions, he said, when if a man did not 
feel religious he didn’t deserve to be kept on the ship’s books 
any longer. And he told us — Cis was staying with us that 
day — for a thousandth time the story of Navarino. 

When the fleets were gone, and the soldiers nearly all sent 
off, we began to look for news. For a long time there came 
little. Charley Napier told his men to sharpen their cut- 
lasses ; that was just what the old fellow would do, because, 
if he got a chance of fighting, he meant fighting. But he 
did not get that chance. Within the fortress of Cronstadt, 
in ignoble safety, lay the Russian fleet, afraid to come out. 
There was a little bombardment of Sweaborg, Helsingfors, 
and Bomarsund ; we made as much as we could of it at the 
time, but it was not like the fighting which the old men re- 
membered. And only a few prizes here and there. One was 
brought in, I remember, by the Argus, at sight of which we 
all turned out to cheer. The Captain sorrowfully said that 
in the good old days when he entered the Navy, about the 
year 1805, he might have been in command of a dozen such 
prizes every year. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE WAR, AND AFTER. 

T hat summer of 1854 was a long and dreary time. We 
were waiting for something to be done, and nothing 
was done. Good Heavens ! Were our generals stupid or 
incapable, or were they dreaming away the time? Who 
does not remember the cholera at Varna, after the long and 

a 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


unnecessary delay, tLe sickness of the troops before a blow 
Lad been struck, and at last the embarkation for the Crimea? 
So great and terrible was the spectre of llussian greatness, 
that even the three great Powers of France, Turkey, and 
England hesitated before attacking this monstrous Franken- 
stein in his den. They went at last, greatly daring, and their 
reward was — Alma. 

And then followed the splendid months of barren victory — 
Inkermann, the soldier’s battle, the foolish braggadocio of 
the Light Cavalry charge, followed by the cruel winter and 
the unmerited sufferings of the troops, for which a dozen 
commissariat ofBcers ought to have been shot. 

About this time I saw my compatriots, the Eussians, for 
the first time. Some prisoners were brought to us; they 
wore flat caps and long coats ; they had good-natured faces, 
not at all foolish ; they had wide noses, like Tartars, and they 
made themselves quite happy and comfortable with us, 
carving all sorts of toys, and showing a power of laughter 
and humour quite incompatible with the devilry which we 
had been accustomed to attach to the Muscovite character. 
They were only devils, I suppose, by the order of the Czar, 
and in the ranks. Outside the ranks as peaceable, docile, 
and quiet a set of fellows as ever wanted to grow an honest 
crop in peace. 

But how we received the news in those days ! With cheers, 
with illuminations, with feastings, with receptions of captains, 
generals, and admirals. Still the exodus of oxxy juventus went 
on. The juvenes were younger, smaller, and more rustic in 
appearance. They all, however, had the same gallant bear- 
ing, these brave country lads, fresh from the plough and the 
stable, redolent of Mother Earth. A few weeks before, and 
they were leaning against posts in the village street, feed- 
ing pigs, driving calves, striding with a sideward lurch after 
cows, sitting almost mute on a bench in the village ale- 
house. Now they were well set up, drilled, inspired with 
warlike ardour, filled with new ideas of duty, responsibility, 
and a career; ready to do — and to die. Let us confess that 
the readiness to die is always qualified by that belief which 


THE WAR, AND AFTER. 


99 


every soldier has, that he, if no one else, will be the one 
person to escape. If it were not for that saving clause, I 
fear that even in the times of greatest danger to the country 
service in the ranks would not be popular. Men did not 
volunteer for those charming fights in the arena before Nero, 
when all had to die on the ground. Quite the contrary ; 
they disliked that kind of fight, and I have often thought 
how greatly the vivacity and ardour of the combat would 
have been increased if the combatants had been told before- 
hand that one — say the bravest — would have his life spared, 
with a pension of a shilling a day ever afterwards. Vos 
morituri salutant might have been said by those fresh- 
cheeked young English lads on their way to club muskets at 
Inkermann, and to fall in the storming of the Redan. 

And after a while they began to send the wounded home. 

To receive them, a hospital was built in one of the meadows 
under the Ramparts, and a portion of the wall was railed o 9 
for the convalescents to walk upon. This made our own end 
at the Queen’s Bastion still more quiet and secluded. 

In 1856, the sick and wounded were brought home by 
every ship that arrived from the East, and week by week, 
sometimes daily, might be seen filing up the long and narrow 
street, a long and dismal procession. It consisted of sailors 
carrying stretchers, four to every stretcher. There was no 
band now, nor would be any more for most of the poor men 
upon the stretchers, till the muffled drums and the fifes went 
before the coffin and played the Dead March.” The towns- 
folk who had turned out to wave their handkerchiefs when 
the soldiers left came out now to greet them back. But 
what a greeting ! and what a return ! Some, sitting half- 
upright, waved feeble hands in response to those who lined 
the way and cheered their return. Their faces were pale and 
worn with suffering; sometimes a sheet covered the lower 
limbs, which were mutilated and crushed; some, a little 
stronger than their comrades, sat up, laughed, and nodded. 
Some, worn out by the rolling of the ship, the pain of their 
wounds, and the long sufferings of the campaign, lay back 
with closed eyes, patient, and sad to see, and made no sign. 


lOO 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


And here and there one was borne along ghastly, the pallor 
of death upon his cheeks, life done for him ; not even vitality 
enough left to think about the future world ; his eyes half 
open, with a fixed glare which observed nothing. This, with 
the row of tombs in the Crimea and at Scutari, was the end of 
all that pride and pomp of war. What was it Tennyson, said : 

“ The long, long canker of Peace is over and done.” 

We were to wake to nobler aims, leave the sordid and base^ 
give up cheating and strike home, were it but with the 
cheating yard-measure. 

Well. The war came, ran its course, and ended. What 
nobler ends followed ? How much was abolished of the old 
cheating, the sordid aims, and the general baseness of a world 
at peace ? How much less wicked and selfish were we, when 
all the fighting was finished, and the soldiers come back to us ? 

And after all, we return to Celia’s question, ‘‘What had 
they done to each other, the Russians and the English, that 
they should stand face to face and fight ? ” 

“ Take me away, Laddy,” Celia said one day, after seeing 
one of the gloomy processions of the wounded partly file past. 
“ Take me away. I cannot bear to see any more. Oh ! the 

poor soldiers — the poor soldiers . What punishment can 

be great enough for the men who have brought all this misery 
upon the earth ? ’’ 

What, indeed ? But Nicolas was dead. General F^vrier 
killed him. Perhaps, after all, he was not the guiltiest. But 
he gave the word. It is to be hoped, for their own sakes, 
that autocrats do not know what war means, else surely the 
word never would be given even to save the throne, and every 
nation would manage its own affairs in quietness. 

And yet England had to fight. It seems most true that 
the war could not be avoided. All that blood, all that suffer- 
ing, the moans of so many thousands of wounded, the tears 
of so many thousands of women and children, the awakening 
of so many evil passions, the letting loose of so many devils, 
must fall upon the head of Russia. First to excite revolt 
among the Christian subjects of the Turk: then to make 


THE WAE, AND AFTEK. 


lOI 


difficulties for the Turks in putting down the miserable 
victims of the Russian plot ; then to call on Europe to mark 
how Turkey treated her subjects; then to proclaim herself 
the protector of Christians ; this was Russia’s game in 1828, in 
1 853, and lastly, in 1 876. And the glory of the poor soldiers ? 
They died for their country, and have such glory as belongs 
to one of a nameless fifty thousand fallen on the field. 

The fight was just and the victory righteous. We pay the 
penalty now of not having carried the war to its legitimate 
end. We should have restored Poland, driven Russia back 
to the Caucasus and the Caspian, giving Finland again to 
Sweden, and taken away her southern ports. All this we 
could have done; it was possible to England and France 
twenty years ago. Will the chance ever come again ? 

Through the whole of the war there was no man in the 
town who took a keener interest in it, who was oftener in 
the streets, who hung more about the harbour, or talked 
more with soldiers and sailors, than Herr Raumer. 

The war, in any case, did good to our own people at the 
Dockyard town. There had never been such times since the 
good old long war, when a man who had a shop near the 
Hard had but to open it and stand all day taking the sailors’ 
money as fast as they poured it out over the counter. Every 
ship that came home brought her sailors to be paid off, the 
money to be all spent in the town ; every ship that sailed for 
the East carried away stores for the soldiers, chiefiy bought 
in the town. Those who were in the way of all this money- 
making made fortunes out of it, and retired to suburban 
villas, with gardens, for the rest of their lives. I do not 
think that the green coffee berries, the putrid preserved meat, 
the mouldy compressed hay, or the biscuits that walked about 
animated by a multitudinous hive of lively creatures, were 
supplied by any of our people. We were too patriotic; we 
had friends on board the ships if not in the regiments — could 
we send them out rotten provisions or brown paper boots ? 
Then there was the revelry. 

Out of all the millions spent in the Crimean War, think 
how many went in the drink-shops and the dancing-kens. 


102 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


The fiddle of old Wassielewski, I know, was in constant re- 
quest; often and often I heard the well-known sound — I 
knew his style, which was distinct from that of any other of 
the sailors’ musicians — from behind the red curtains of a 
sailors’ public-house, behind which Jack and Jill were danc- 
ing, drinking, and singing. The China War, by the way, 
was long since played out, and the picture had given way to 
another, in which Russians were playing an ignominious but 
dramatic part. A side picture represented French sailors 
and soldiers, very tight of waist, mustachioed, and black of 
hair, fraternising merrily with our own men — with drink, 
hand- shaking, and song, they were celebrating the entente 
cordiale. Listen ! It is the sailors’ hornpipe, within is one 
who, grave of face and agile of foot, treads that mazy measure 
alone, while around are grouped the crowd of sympathetic 
rivals, who drink, applaud, and presently emulate. The 
dancer is facing old Wassielewski, who sits with outstretched 
left leg, his deep-set eyes fixed on the opposite wall, his 
thoughts far away in the dreadful past or the revengeful 
future, while the fingers, obedient to his will, play the tune 
that he orders but does not listen to. It is, I know — because 
I do not look in, but feel all this — a low room, and it is 
redolent of a thousand compound smells, ancient, fish-like, 
capable of knocking a stranger down and stunning him with 
a single blow. The windows have never been open for 
twenty or thirty years ; of course, once in a way, a pane was 
broken ; and there were occasions when some young mariner, 
ashore after three years’ cruise, was fain, out of the plethora 
of his joy, to find relief in smashing them all. But the smell 
of that room was venerable by age and respectable by associa- 
tion, though more awful than it is permitted to me to describe. 
Jack and Jill did not mind it; they liked it. There was rum 
in it, plenty of beer, a very large quantity of tobacco, onions, 
beef-steaks, mutton-chops, boiled pork and cabbage, pea- 
soup, more tobacco, more rum, more beer. That smell, my 
friends, is gone; the public-house is gone, Jill is almost 
gone. Jack is an earnest Methodist by religion, and he 
spends his time ashore at the Sailors’ Home. 


THE WAB, AND AFTER. 


103 


And there then was the Dockyard, with all its extra hands, 
and the work going on day and night, so that the solemn 
silence of the darkness was unknown. Victory Eow must 
have lost one of its chief charms. For the whole twenty- 
four hours there was the incessant tap-tap of the caulkers, 
the heavy thud of the steam-hammer, the melodious banging 
of the rivets, followed by countless echoes from the many- 
cornered yard, and the r — -r — r — r of the machinery. No 
rest at all, except on Sunday. That emergency must be 
great indeed when the British Government would ask its 
workmen to give up their Sabbath rest. 

As for the sailors, there seemed no diminution in their 
numbers, or in the number of the ships which crowded the 
harbour, and were perpetually coming and going with their 
thunder of salutes. Jack only had two stages : he was either 
just paid off, and therefore ostentatiously happy with his 
friends around him, his fiddlers, and his public-house, or he 
was just embarking again on a newly-commissioned ship, 
going off for another cruise with empty pockets, coppers 
terribly hot, and perhaps, if he was Jack in his youth, with 
his faint and dimly seen ghost of a possible repentance 
somewhere lurking about his brain, a spectral umbra point- 
ing heavenward which faded as the shore receded, and 
vanished about six bells in the morning. 

For soldiers, we fell back upon the militia. We have 
never yet grasped the truth that England may have to de- 
fend what she has got ; that she is not only the admiration, 
but also the envy, of all other nations ; that Russia would 
like Constantinople and India; Germany, Australia — good 
Heavens, think of the shame and ignominy of letting any 
uu -English- speaking country have Australia ; the States, 
Canada; France, Egypt and Syria; Italy, Cyprus; Greece, 
Crete, and so on. When these facts have become convictions, 
when we fairly understand how great is our position in the 
world; what a tremendous stake we have in it ; how much 
of unselfish humanity depends on the maintenance of English 
hegemony ; then will England arm every man between fifteen 
and fifty, and make all from twenty to thirty liable to foreign 


104 


BY CELIA’S AEBOtfR. 


service. Patriotism sleeps, but it may be awakened. If it 
continues to sleep, farewell to England’s greatness. A century 
of ignoble wealth, a generation or two of commerce diverted, 
trade ruined, industries forgotten, and the brave old country 
would become worse than Holland, because the English are 
more sensitive than the Dutch, and the memories of old glory 
combined with present degradation would madden the people 
and drive them to — the usual British remedy, drink. 

In 1855 we — I do not speak as a Pole — were rather better 
off in the matter of regiments and recruits than we should 
be in 1877, were the occasion to arise. In all these years, 
we have learned nothing, taken to heart nothing, done nothing, 
prepared for nothing. We have no larger army, we have 
no better organisation, we have no more intelligent system, 
we have not made our officers more responsible. Twenty years 
ago, we threw away twenty thousand men — with a light heart 
sent out twenty thousand men to die because we had no system 
of control, transport, and commissariat. All these poor lads 
died of preventible disease. What have we done since to make 
that impossible again ? Nothing. Talk. At the very Autumn 
Manoeuvres, when we have weeks to prepare and a paltry 
ten thousand men to provide for, we break down. Continental 
nations see it, and laugh at us. What have we done to make 
our children learn that they must fight 'pro patrid^ if occasion 
arise ? Nothing. Board schools teach the Kings of Israel ; 
the very atmosphere of the country teaches desire of success 
and the good things which success brings with it ; no school 
teaches, as the Germans teach, that every man is owed to his 
country. That may come : if it does not come soon, farewell 
to England’s greatness. Again : that the Empire was created 
and grew great, not by truckling to the pretensions of modern 
diplomatists, but by saying: Thus far, and no farther.” 

Do this wrong or that, and you will have to fight England.” 
'I'hat the most glorious country tliat the world has ever seen, 
the finest, the richest, the most splendid, the most religious, 
the least priest-ridden and king-ridden, was made what it is 
by its children being willing and able to fight — all these 
things were not taught in 1855, and are not yet taught in 


THE WAR, AND AFTER. 


105 


1877. Good heavens! I am a Pole, and yet more than half 
an Englishman : and it makes me sick and sorry to feel how 
great is the parsimony of an Englishman ; how noble are his 
annals ; how profound a gap would be made in the world by 
the collapse of England ; and how little English people seem 
to understand their greatness. I have been waiting for twenty 
years to see the fruits of the Crimean War — and, behold, they 
are dust and ashes in the mouth. 

Revenons a nos moutons. Our garrison then consisted of a 
couple of militia regiments. They came to us, raw country 
lads, like the recruits whom we sent to the East; but, being 
without the presence of the veterans to control and influence 
them, they took longer to improve. And yet it is wonderful 
to notice how an English lad takes to his drill and tackles 
his gun from the very first, with an intelligence that is almost 
instinct. He is, to be sure, almost too fond of fighting. There 
is no other country besides England, except France, where 
the recruits can be taught to march, to skirmish, and the rest 
of it, without the aid of Sergeant Stick, so largely employed 
in the Russian, German, and Austrian services. These young 
fellows come up to barracks, with their country lurch upon 
them, their good-natured country gi'in, and their insatiable 
thirst for beer. They retained the last, but in a very short 
time got rid of the first. One whole regiment volunteered 
for foreign service — I forget what it was — and went to Corfu, 
the island which a late Prime Minister, more careful of a 
theory than of a country’s prestige, tossed contemptuously 
to Greece, so that all the world sneered, and even the gods 
wondered. Well, these rustics of militiamen, I declare, after 
a few weeks were as well set up, pipe-clayed, and drilled as 
any regiment of the line, and as trustworthy in case their 
services should be required. 

In one thing, one must needs confess, they were inferior to 
the regulars. It was not in perpendicularity, which they 
easily acquired. We were still in the pipe-clay days, when 
the white belt and the cross shoulder-straps were daily stiffened 
by that abominable stuff ; the white trousers of summer had 
also to be kept in a whited sepulchre semblance of purity by 


io6 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


the same means ; a man who is pipe-clayed cannot stoop ; 
the black leather collar kept the head at an unbending line 
with the body ; and the yellow tufts on the shoulder, with the 
swallow-tails of the absurd regimental coat and the tiny ball 
of red stuff on the regimental hat, all combined to necessitate 
a carriage ten times stiffer and more rigidly upright than in 
these degenerate days. The most lopsided and lurcher-like 
of rustics was bound to become perpendicular. But their 
failing was in the way they took their beer. The old regular 
got drunk as often as the militiaman, but the drunker he got 
the stiffer he grew, so that when he was quite helpless he fell 
like a lamp-post, with uncompromising legs. And we, who 
knew by experience how a soldier should fall, remarked with 
sorrow rather than anger that the militiaman fell in a heap 
like a ploughboy, and so betrayed his customary pursuits. 


CHAPTER XIL 


THE BRAMBLER FAMILY. 


HIS was an especially good time for Ferdinand Brambler, 



-L the journalist, and consequently for the children. Such 
years of fatness had never before been known to them. Not, 
it is true, that Fortune befriended Augustus. Quite the 
contrary. War might be made and peace signed without 
affecting his position in the slightest. Nothing ever hap- 
pened to better his position. On one occasion even — I think 
it was in 1856 — he received an intimation from Mr. Tyrrell’s 
head clerk, who had vainly trusted him with some real work, 
that his resignation would be accepted if he sent it in. 
Therefore, with the enthusiasm ever equal to the occasion, he 
hastened to desert the Legal, and once more returned to the 
Scholastic, taking the post of writing and arithmetic master 
in a Select Commercial Academy. 

After all,” he said to me, the Scholastic is my real 
vocation. I feel it most when I go back to it. To teach the 
rising generation — what can be nobler? I influence one 
mind, we will say. Through him I influence his six children ; 


THE BKAMBLER FAMILY. 


107 


througli them their thirty-six children ; through them again 
their two hundred and sixteen — there is no end to the influ- 
ence of the schoolmaster. I shall be remembered, Mr. Pulaski, 
I shall be remembered, by a grateful posterity.” 

Perhaps he will be remembered, but his chances of exercis- 
ing permanent influence were scanty on this occasion, because, 
altbongh he taught with extraordinary zeal and activity, the 
Principal actually complained, after three months, that his 
boys were learning nothing, and gave him notice in the 
friendliest and kindest manner. 

Some secret influence was probably brought to bear upon 
Mr. Tyrrell at this juncture, when the Brambler household 
threatened to lose the income derived from the labour of its 
chief, because Augustus went back to his old office and his old 
pay, sitting once more cheerfully among the boys, mending 
the pens with enthusiastic alacrity, serving writs with zeal, 
copying out bills of cost with ardour, and actively inspecting 
old books in an eager search for nothing. 

I do think,” he said in a burst of enthusiasm, that there 
is nothing after all like the Legal. When you have deserted 
it for a timOj and go back to it, you feel it most. Law brings 
out the argumentative side — the intellectual side — of a man. 
It makes him critical. Law keeps his brain on the stretch. 
Often on Saturday night I wonder how I have managed to 
worry through the work of the week. But you see they could 
not get on without me.” 

Perhaps not, but yet if Augustus had known by whose fair 
pleading he was received back to become a permanent incubus 
on the weekly expenses of that office 

In the Scholastic, in the Clerical, or in the Legal, Augustus 
Brambler never changed, never lost heart, never failed in 
zeal, never ceased to take the same lively and personal interest 
in the well-being of the House. He had his punctual habits 
and his maxims. He was a model among employes. Fortune, 
when she gave Augustus a sanguine temperament and a 
lively imagination, thought she had done enough for the man, 
and handed him over to the Three Sisters as sufficiently 
endowed to meet any fate. And they condemned him to the 


io8 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUB. 


unceasing and contented exercise of illusion and imagination, 
so that he never saw things as they really were, or understood 
their proportion. 

But during the years of war the children, in spite of their 
helpless father, waxed fat and strong, and even little Forty- 
six looked satisfied and well-fed. 

It was through the exertions of their Uncle Ferdinand. 

I had long observed that whenever anything was going on 
— and something in these days was constantly going on — 
Ferdinand, besides Herr Eaumer, was always on the spot. 
Whatever the nature of the ceremony, whether it was the 
embarkation of a regiment, or the arrival of the invalided, 
or a military funeral, or an inspection of troops upon the 
Common, or a launch, Ferdinand was in attendance, and to 
the front, wearing a face of indescribable importance, and 
carrying a notebook. This in hand, he surveyed the crowd 
on arrival, and made a note ; cast a weather eye upwards to 
the sky, and made a note ; drew out his watch, and made a 
note; then as soon as the Function began he continued 
steadily making notes until the end. I did not at first, being 
innocent of literary matters, connect these notes with certain 
descriptions of events which regularly appeared on the follow- 
ing Saturday in the local Mercury. They were written with 
fidelity and vigour; they did justice to the subject; they 
were poetical in feeling and flowery in expression. A fine 
day was rendered as a bright and balmy atmosphere warmed 
by the beams of benevolent Sol ; ” a crowded gathering gave 
an opportunity for the admirer of beauty to congratulate his 
fellow-towsnmen on the comeliness and tasteful dress of their 
daughters ; when a ship was launched she was made by a 
bold and strikingly original figure to float swan-like on the 
bosom of the ocean; when a public dinner was held, the 
tables groaned under the viands provided by mine eminent 
host of the George ; the choicest wines sparkled in the goblet; 
animation and enthusiasm reigned in every heart; and each 
successive flow of oratory was an occasion for a greater and 
more enthusiastic outburst of cheering. The writer was not 
critical, he was descriptive. That is the more popular form 


The brambler family. 


109 


of journalism. Froissart was the inventor of the uncritical his- 
torian. And Ferdinand was born either too early or too late. 

For all these beautiful and gushing columns, invaluable to 
some antiquary of the future, were due to the pen of Ferdinand 
Brambler, and it was by the frequency of the occasions on 
which his powers were called for that the prosperity of the 
Bramblers depended. And Ferdinand, an excellent brother, 
and the most self-denying creature in the world, worked 
cheerfully for his nephews and nieces. Beneath that solemn 
exterior, and behind those pretensions to genius, there beat 
the most simple and unselfish of hearts. 

Ferdinand did not report ; first because he could not write 
shorthand, and secondly, because he thought it — and said so 
— beneath the dignity of genius to become the ‘‘ mere copy- 
ing clerk of Vestry twaddle.” He lived on his communiques^ 
for which, as he was the only man in the place who wrote 
them, and therefore had the fi.eld all to himself, he received 
fairly good pay. During the Crimean War he had a never- 
ending succession of subjects for his pen, which was as facile 
as it was commonplace. It was the history of the regiment ; 
it was a note on the next roster ; it was the service roll of a 
ship ; it was the biography of a general ; nothing came amiss 
to the encyclopaedic Ferdinand ; and whatever he treated, it 
must be owned, was treated with the same hackneyed similes, 
the same well-worn metaphors, and the same pleasantries ; for, 
while Augustus looked on life through the rosy glasses of a 
sanguine imagination, Ferdinand regarded things from the 
standpoint of genius. He wrote for a provincial weekly 
paper ; nothing higher would take his papers ; he was not 
the editor ; he was not even on the regular salaried staff ; he 
was a mere outsider, sending in articles on such topics as 
occurred to him ; but in his own imagination he wrote for 
posterity. Like Augustus, he believed in himself. And just 
as Augustus assumed in the family circle the air of one who 
unbends after hard intellectual labour, so Ferdinand when he 
emerged from the ground-floor front, which was his study, and 
contained his library, moved and spoke with the solemnity of 
one with whom his genius was always present. 


no 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


From 1853 to 1857 the family flourished and grew fat. For 
after the Russian War was finished, and the Treaty signed — 
to be broken as soon as the semi-barbaric Muscovite thought 
himself strong enough — there arose in the far East another 
cloud. I have often wondered whether the Indian Mutiny, 
like the late Bulgarian insurrections, was got up by Russian 
agents, and if so, I have reflected with joy upon the madden- 
ing disappointment to the Tartar that it did not happen 
just two years before. 

We had achieved peace, not a very glorious peace, because 
we ought to have driven Russia back to the Caucasus as a 
frontier before any peace was thought of, but still peace, and 
with the memory of those three years upon us, the sufferings 
of our troops, the unpreparedness of England, the rascality 
of contractors, and the inefficiency of our officers, we were 
glad to sit down and rest. How have we profited by the 
lesson of twenty years ago ? What security have we that 
on the next occasion, when our men are ordered out again, 
the same things will not happen again — the green coffee, the 
putrid preserved meat, the shoddy coats, the brown-paper 
boots, the very powder adulterated ? 

Peace! Well we had fought two or three gallant battles, 
been jealous of our gallant allies, killed an immense number 
— say, altogether, with those who died on the march, and 
those who died of disease, and those who died in the field, 
about half a million of Russians, fifty thousand Englishmen, 
double the number of French, and the same number of Turks ; 
we had put a sudden end to Tennyson’s ‘‘long canker of 
peace; ’’and made it war — first for righteous reasons, and 
then for the lust of blood and battle, the red-sheeted spectre 
which rises when the trumpet sounds and fires the blood of 
peaceful men. As for the morality at home, as I asked in 
the last chapter, were we the better ? 

Then came the Indian Mutiny. For a while it seemed as 
if the very foundations of the Indian Empire were shaken. 
And at no time were the hearts of Englishmen more stirred 
in the whole of England’s history than by the tales of 
massacre and murder which came by every ship from the 


THE BKAMBLER FAMILY. 


Ill 


East. The troops which had enjoyed a brief year of rest 
were hastily re- embarked : the flags which bore the names of 
Alma, Inkermann, and Balaclava were carried out again to 
get the names of Lucknow and Delhi; but the men who 
inarched out in ’54 with the sturdy look of men who mean 
to fight because they must, went out now with the face of 
those who go to take revenge because they can. It was a 
war of revenge. And, whatever the provocation, it was a 
full and even a cruel measure of revenge that the British 
soldiers took. We were growing sick of ‘‘history,’’ Cis and 
I. We waited and watched while the red coats went and 
came ; wanted to go on without excitement with our music 
and our reading, and we longed for peace. 

“The Lord,” said the Captain, “gives us peace, and the 
Devil gives us war. Until the nature of men is changed, 
there will be peace and war in alternate slices like a sand- 
wich. In good times the sandwich is meaty. Meanwhile, 
let us keep up the Fleet.” 

We came to the spring of 1858. Mr. Tyrrell was Mayor 
for the second time. It was the year when Leonard should 
return — five years on June the twenty-first. Celia looked at 
me sometimes, and I at her. But we said nothing, because 
we understood what was meant. And one day I surprised 
the Captain in Leonard’s room. He was opening drawers, 
arranging chairs, and trying wdndow blinds. “ All ship- 
shape, Laddy, and in good order. Don’t let the boy think 
the vessel has got out of trim after all these years.” 

The Mutiny was over, the punishment had been inflicted, 
and our town was now comparatively quiet. No more hurried 
preparations of armaments and despatch of ships. Things 
became flat ; the people who had not already made fortunes 
out of the war saw with sorrow that their opportunity was 
past ; the extra hands at the Dockyard were discharged ; 
and the town became quiet again. It was bad for all who 
had to earn their bread — even I felt the change in a falling- 
off’ of pupils — and it was especially bad for poor Ferdinand 
Brambler. 

I met him one day walking solemnly away from the Yard, 


112 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


notebook in band. I stopped to shake hands with him, and 
noticed that his clothes were shabby, his boots worn at the 
heel, his hat ancient, and his general get-np indicating either 
the neglect of outward appearance peculiar to genius, or a 
period of financial depression. While I accosted him, his 
brother Augustus passed by. He, too, was in like pitiable 
guise. And he looked pinched in the cheeks, albeit smiling 
and cheerful as ever. 

‘‘ What will it run to, Ferdinand ? ” he asked anxiously. 

I should say,’* said Ferdinand with hesitation, ‘‘ unless I 
am disappointed, mind, which I may be, I should say it will 
be a pound of tea, the greengrocer s bill, and something to 
Forty-seven’s new shoes.” 

The wife did say,” replied Augustus, that the children’s 
breakings-out are for want of meat. But if we can’t have 
meat we can’t. Awfully busy at the office, Ferdinand. 
Money pouring in. Nothing like the Legal.” 

Poor Ferdinand, who by long struggling with the family 
wolf had got to look on everything he wrote as representing 
payment in kind, was right in being proud of his profession, 
because he had nothing else to be proud of. It was not in 
quiet times a lucrative one, and I should think, taking one 
year with another, that this poor genius, who really loved 
literature for its own sake, and with better education and 
better chances might have made something of a name, received 
from his profession about as much as his brother in the Legal, 
and that was sixty pounds a year. 

I repeated this conversation to the Captain at dinner. He 
became silent, and after our simple meal proposed that we 
should go for a walk. By the merest chance we passed the 
Bramblers’ house. 

‘‘ Dear me,” said the Captain, the very people we 
were speaking of. Suppose we pay our respects to Mrs. 
Brambler.” 

The poor mother was up to her eyes in work, her endless 
children round her. But the little Bramblers did not look 
happy. They wore a pinched and starved look, and there 
was no disguising fbe fact that they w^re, breaking out. 


THE BRAMBLER FAMILY. 


113 

Forty- eight scowled at us with rebellious looks ; Forty-six 
was wolfish in hungry gaze, and even the mild-eyed Forty- 
four looked sad. 

Mrs. Brambler read the pity in the Captain’s eyes, and sat 
down, bursting into tears, and throwing her apron over her 
face. The elder girls stole to the window and sobbed behind 
the curtain — the younger children sat down every one upon 
what came handiest, and all cried together. They were a 
very emotional family. 

‘‘ So — so,” said the Captain, “ we were passing — Laddy 
and I — and we thought we would drop in — thought — we — 

would — drop — in. Come here, Forty-six Does this boy, 

do you think, Mrs. Brambler, have enough nourishment ? ” 

Augustus does all he can. Captain, and so does Fer- 
dinand, I’m sure. But there was the rent, and we behind 
with everybody — and — and — sometimes it’s ’most too much 
for me.” 

We dropped in,” repeated the mendacious Captain, ^^to 
invite the children to tea and supper to-night ” 

Hooray ! ” cried Forty-six, dancing about, and the faces 
of all lighted up with a sunshine like their father’s. 

It’s only your kindness, Captain. You don’t really want 
them.” 

Not want them ? Where is Forty- four ? Come and kiss 
me, my dear. Where is your colour gone ? Not want them ? 
Nonsense. Nothing but shrimps and periwinkles, and water- 
cress, perhaps, for tea ; but for supper — ah! — eh! Laddy, what 
can we do in the way of supper ? What’s in the larder ? ” 

“ A leg of mutton, a beefsteak, and a pair of chickens,” I 
replied. I think that is all.” 

The larder was in fact empty, but this was not a time to 
parade the vacuum. 

You see, Mrs. Brambler; much more, very much more, 
than we can possibly eat. Friends in the country. And 
we did think that the steak for supper ” 

Ah ! ” cried Forty-six irrepressibly. 

‘‘With the leg of mutton for yourself, and the pair of 
chickens——” 


H 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUE. 


1 14 

Mrs. Brambler laughed through her tears. 

‘‘ There — go along, Captain,” she said. We know. — But 

if it wouldn’t trouble you, the children shall go and welcome.” 

‘‘ Very lucky, Laddy,” said the Captain in the street, ‘‘ that 
the larder is so full. Let us call at the butcher’s as we go 
home.” 

I ventured to mention to Herr Kaumer the distressed con- 
dition of the family with whom he lodged. 

‘‘ I know it,” he said, helping himself to a glass of hock, 
have seen for some time that the children were not 
properly fed. It is a pity. A good many children about 
the world are in the same plight.” 

Help them,” I said sententiously, when you can.” 

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 

“ I am past sixty. I have seen so much distress in the 
world that I have long since resolved to help nobody. The 
weakest goes to the wall in this best of all possible worlds. 
If it is not the best it is not my fault, because I did not 
make it. Every man for himself, as you will say at sixty if 
you are honest. This is a comfortable chair, this is good 
Hock, this is excellent tobacco. Why should I trouble myself 
because people are starving in the room below us any more 
than because they are starving in China, which is a good 
many miles off? Pity and charity are excellent things in 
the abstract. Applied to individuals actually before you, they 
are disquieting. A lions, cher Ladislas, soyons philosophes.'' 

He was a man of infinite pity in the abstract, wept over 
any amount of woe served up in the yellow paper covers of a 
French novel, but in the presence of actual suffering he was 
callous. “ Every man for himself.” Since I have grown 
older I have learned to distrust many a philanthropist whose 
sympathies grow deeper the farther they reach from home. 

‘‘And now,” he went on, changing the position of his 
legs, “ let us be cheerful, and talk of Celia. Pretty, delicate, 
little Celia. Tall and gracieuse Celia. Choice and delicious 
Celia. She is a credit to you, Ladislas Pulaski. Her 
husband will thank you. I drink her health. Ah! The 
English girls. . . After all, we must grant these islanders 


A FLOWER OF LOVE. 


1 13 


some superiority. They are stupid, ignorant, and prejudiced. 
They call Continental diplomacy bad names, and are going 
to ruin themselves because they will not have secret service 
money. But their girls — their girls are charming. And the 
most charming of them all is Celia.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A FLOWER OF LOVE. 

I T was very early in that year, or at the end of 1857, that I 
made a discovery about myself. Regarded from the 
point of view which the climbing of so many following years 
have enabled me to reach, the discovery seems a thing which 
might have been expected — quite natural, and belonging to 
daily experience. At the time, I remember, it was most 
surprising. 

I suppose no one would believe that a young man could 
come to the age of one-and-twenty, and remain so little of a 
man, as I did. But I was deformed. I was morbidly sensi- 
tive of ridicule. I was extremely poor. I had some pride of 
birth; I could not possibly associate with the professional 
men, the drawing, dancing, and music masters of the town, 
who might have formed my set. Their thoughts were not 
mine; their ways were not my ways. Not that I claimed 
any superiority. Quite the contrary. Men who could ride, 
hunt, shoot, play billiards, and do all the other things which 
belong to skill of hand and eye, seemed, and still seem to 
me, vastly superior to a being who can do nothing except 
interpret the thoughts of the great masters. In a country 
town, unless you belong to the young men of the place, and 
take part in the things which interest them, you fall back 
upon such resources as you have in yourself. There was 
nothing for me but my piano and my books for the evening, 
and Celia in the afternoon. 

It was partly on account of my deformity that we were 
so much together. When Leonard went away I had hardly 
an acquaintance of my own age in the town — certainly 


ii6 


BY CELIACS AKBOUK. 


not a friend ; and I was at the age when the imagination is 
strongest, and the need for close companionship is felt the 
most. In adolescence the heart opens out spontaneously to 
all who are within its reach. The friends of youth are close 
and confidential friends; there is no distrust, no reserve. I 
think it is rare for such a friendship as that between Celia 
and myself to exist between two persons who are not of the 
same sex, neither brother and sister, nor lovers. Yet it 
existed up to‘ a certain time, and then, without a break on 
her part, but after a struggle on mine, it was resumed, and 
has been since continued. There was no shadow of restraint 
between us, but only a perfect and beautiful confidence, when 
Celia was a girl and I was a boy. Like me, but for different 
reasons, she lived apart from other girls : she had no school- 
girl friendships; she never went to school, and had no masters, 
except myself. I taught her all I knew, which was not 
much, in a desultory and methodless fashion, and the girl 
poured out to my ear alone — it was a harvest sixty and a 
hundredfold — the thoughts that sprang up as clear and 
bright as a spring of Lebanon in her pure young heart. The 
thoughts of youth are sacred things ; mostly because young 
people lack powder of expression, they are imperfectly con- 
veyed in the words of the poets, who belong especially to 
the young. Great utterances by the men of old sink deep 
into the hearts of those who are yet on the threshold of life. 
They fertilise the soil, and cause it to blossom in a thousand 
sweet flowers. There is nothing to me, a teacher, and always 
among the young, more beautiful than the enthusiasms and 
illusions of youth, their contempt of compromise, their im- 
patience of diplomatic evasions, their fancied impartiality, 
and their eager partisanship. And I am sometimes of opinion 
that the government of the world — its laws — its justice — its 
preaching — its decisions on war and peace — its expenditure 
— should all be under the control of youth. Before five-and- 
twenty all but the hardest men are open to higher influences 
and nobler aims. The lower levels are reached, step by step, 
through long years of struggle for luxury and position. Let 
the world be ruled by the adolescent, and let the wisdom of 


A FLOWER OF LOVE. 


117 


the seneSy who have too probably become cynical, disappointed, 
or selfish, be used for administration alone. Above all, no 
man should be Autocrat, King, President, or Prime Minister 
after his five-and-twentieth year. As yet, however, I have 
made no converts to my opinions, and I fear I shall not live 
to see this admirable reform. 

I have had many pupils, and won some friendship among 
them, bat Celia was my first and best. No one was ever 
like her in my eyes, so zealous for righteousness, so pitiful 
for wrong- doers, so sweet in thought. Perhaps we loved her 
so much — the Captain and I — that we saw in her more 
virtues than she possessed. It is the way of those who love. 
What would this world be worth without that power of 
illusion which clothes our dear ones, while yet in life, with 
the white robes of Heaven ? 

‘‘Has she wings somewhere, do you think, Laddy?” said 
the Captain one evening. Turning over the pages of the 
Bible, he lighted on a chapter which, he announced to me, 
bore upon the subject, and he would read it. “ Celia’s price,’’ 
he read, commenting as he went along, “ is far above rubies. 
That is perfectly true. The heart of her husband — she shall 
have a good one — shall safely trust in her. If he can’t trust 
in her, he won’t be fit to be her husband. She shall rejoice 
— there is prophecy for us. Laddy — in time to come. Many 
daughters — listen to this — have" done virtuously, but Celia 
excels them all. The woman that feareth the Lord she shall 
be praised. Now, if that does not bear upon the girl, what 
does?” 

It was not possible that our boy-and-girl confidences should 
remain permanently unchanged, but the change was gradual. 
I noticed, first of all, that Celia’s talk grew less personal and 
more general. As I followed her lead, we ceased in a 
measure to refer everything that we read or played to our 
own thoughts. So that we grew more reserved to each other. 
An invisible barrier was rising between us, that we knew 
nothing of. It was caused by the passage of the girl into 
womanhood, imperceptible as the rising of the tide, which 
you do not notice until you compare your landmarks, and 


ii8 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR 


see how the water has gained. It was the transformation of 
the child, open as the day, candid and unreserved, into the 
woman — the true emblem of her is this figure of the Veiled 
Nymph — who hides, nourishes, and guards her secrets, 
gathering them up in the rich garner of her heart till she 
can show them all to her husband, and then keep them for her 
son. A woman without the mystical veil is no woman, but a 
creature androgynous, amorphous, loathsome. So that Celia 
would never be again — I see it so well now — what she had 
been to me. Her face was the same as it had been, set grave 
at one moment with its fine delicate lines and ethereal look, 
and at the next bright and laughing like a mofintain stream, 
but always sweet with the same kindness when she looked 
at me. Only it seemed at times as if I were groping about 
in the dark for the soul of Celia, and that I found it 
not. 

Cis,” I said, one afternoon — we were in our old place, and 
she was leaning against the gun looking thoughtfully across 
the harbour. The tide was out, and instead of the broad 
lagoon was a boundless stretch of green and black mud, 
intersected by a stream of sea water, iip and down which 
boats could make their way at all tides. Cis, do you know 
that we are changed to each other ? ’’ 

Almost as I said it, I perceived that if Celia was changed 
to me, I was no less changed towards her. 

‘‘ What is it, Laddy ? ” she asked, turning gently and 
resting her eyes on mine. They were so soft and clear that 
1 could hardly bear to look into them — a little troubled, too, 
with wonder, as if she could not understand what I meant. 
‘‘ What is it, Laddy ? How are we changed 

I don’t know. I think, Cis, it is because — because you 
are growing a woman.” 

She sat down beside me on the grass. She was so much 
taller than I that it was nothing for her to lay her hand upon 
my shoulder. We often walked so. Sometimes I took her 
arm. But now the gesture humiliated me. I felt angry and 
hurt. Was I then of such small account that she should 
change in thought, and yet retain the old familiar fashion, as 


A FLOWER OF LOVE. 


1 19 

if it mattered nothing what she said or did to me ? It was a 
shameful and an unworthy feeling. 

“ Because I am grown a woman ? ” she repeated quietly. 
‘‘Yes I believe 1 am a woman now.” 

She was, indeed, a stately, lovely woman, with the tall and 
graceful figure of Helen, and the pure face of Antigone, 
elastic in her tread, free in the movements of her shapely 
limbs, brave in the carriage of her head, full of strength, 
youth, and activity. Her face was long and oval ; but her 
lips, which is not usual in oval faces, were as full and as 
mobile as the leaf upon the tree. Her features were straight 
and delicate. All about her was delicate alike, from the tiny 
coral ears to the dainty fingers and little feet, which, like 
mice, went in and out. A maiden formed for love, altogether 
and wholly lovable ; sweet as the new-mown hay, inexhaus- 
tible in loveliness — like the Shulamite, fair as the moon, clear 
as the sun, lovely as Tirzah, a spring of living waters, but as 
yet a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. And as I looked up 
at her my heart sank down within me. 

“But why should that make a difference between us, 
Laddy?" 

I put her hand from my shoulder roughly, and sprang to 
my feet, because suddenly my heart overflowed, and words 
came bubbling to my lips which had to be repressed. I 
walked to the parapet, and looked across the arbour, battling 
with myself for a few moments. Then I turned. The girl 
was looking at me with wonder. 

“ Why should that make any difference, Laddy ? ” she 
repeated. 

I was master of myself by this time, and could answer with 
a smile and lightly. 

“ Because you have put away the thoughts of a child, Celia. 
You no longer think or speak as you used to. Not any 
sudden change, Cis. Do not think that I complain. I was 
thinking of what we were a couple of years ago, and what we 
are now. You cannot help it. You show your womanhood 
in your new armour of reserve. Very bright and beautiful 
armour it is." 


120 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


‘‘I meant no reserve, dear Laddy. We always talked to- 
gether since we were children, have we not ? and told each 
other everything.” 

Not lately, Cis ; have we ? ” 

She hesitated, and blushed a little. Then she evaded my 
question. 

Why, who could be more to me than you, Laddy ? My 
companion, my tutor, my brother. What have I to hide from 
you ? Nothing, Laddy, nothing.” 

Not that you know of, Cis. But there is a change. I 
think that we do not talk so freely of our thoughts as we did. 
Do we ? ” 

She pondered for a moment. 

I thought we did, Laddy. At least I have not thought 
anything about it. There is no change indeed, dear Laddy. 
What if I am grown up, as you say, into a woman ? ” 

What, indeed, stately Cis? Only girls are so — they 
wrap themselves up in their own thoughts and become 
enigmas.” 

She laughed now. 

What do you know about girls, pray? We have so few 
thoughts worthy the name that we can hardly be said to wrap 
ourselves in them. And why should girls be enigmas any 
more than your own sex, sir.” 

I don’t know. Perhaps because we want to find out more 
than they care to tell us about themselves.” 

Perhaps because men always think and talk of women 
as a class. Why can’t they give us individuality ? You see, 
Laddy, we are different from men chiefly because we have no 
ambition for ourselves. I suppose it is in our nature — so far 
we are a class — that we desire peace and obscurity for our- 
selves, and greatness only for those men we care about. I 
have no hopes for myself in the future, Laddy. But I want 
to see Leonard famous, and you a great composer of beautiful 
music, and the dear old Captain happy in your success, and 
my father to grow in honour and reputation. That is all my 
prayer for myself and my friends. And I like to think of 
good men and women working all over the world to make us 


A FLOWER OF LOVE. 


I2l 


all better and happier. Perhaps it may come in my way 
some day to do something quietly for the love of God.’' 

You do something quietly already, Cis/’ I said, ‘^because 
you live as you do live.” 

Ah, Laddy, I have so many people who love me. Life is 
very easy when one is surrounded by the affection of so many. 
Suppose one had been born in the courts, where the voices 
are rough and men swear. Look at that troop of miserable 
men.” She pointed to a gang of convicts passing through 
Liberty Gate. ‘‘ What have been their temptations ? How 
could they have lived the Christian life?’^ 

‘‘ Their standard is lower than yours, Ois. Do you re- 
member the statue of Christ, which was always higher than 
the tallest man ? The higher one’s thoughts carry one, the 
more wonderful, the more unattainable, seems the Christ-like 
life. But our talk has led us into strange paths, Cis. All 
this because I said you were grown a woman.” 

No, sir, you called me names. You said 1 was an 
enigma. See now, Laddy, I must never be an enigma to 
you. I promise this. If ever you think that I am hiding 
any thought from you, ask me what it is, and I will confess 
it unless it is an unworthy thought, and then 1 should be 
ashamed.” 

‘‘ You could not have unworthy thoughts, Cis.” 

She shook her head. 

“Foolish and frivolous thoughts. Vain and selfish thoughts/ 
she said. ‘‘ Never mind them now. Let us only continue 
as we always have been — my brother, my kind and sweet- 
faced brother.” 

Mine, indeed ; but that she did not know. She took my 
hands in hers, laid her sweet fair cheek to mine, and kissed 
me on the lips and forehead. I think I feel her kisses still, 
I did not dare — I could not — return them. For when that 
ruby-red rose blossom of her lips met mine I trembled in all 
my limbs. 

Think. I was small, mean of appearance, and deformed, 
but I was past twenty-one years of age. I was a man. And 
I loved the girl with an unbrotherly love, and with a passion 


122 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR 


which might even have belonged to a man whose back was 
straight. ^ . 

If I trembled when she touched me, just as I rejoiced when 
,I saw her, or heard the rustle of her dress, the kisses which 
she gave me struck my heart with a coldness as of death. Of 
course I knew it all along, but there is always a reserve power 
of illusion in youth, and I may have deceived myself. But 
now it came home to me with clearness as of crystal that Celia 
could never, never, by any chance, care for me — in that way. 

I realised this in a moment, and pulled myself together 
with an effort, returning the gentle pressure of her soft warm 
hand just as if my heart was as calm as her own. Then I 
answered in commonplace and at random. 

Thank you, Ois. Some day, perhaps, I shall take you at 
your word, and make you confess all sorts of hidden things. 
Tutor and pupil is all very well, so is elder brother and 
younger sister. But you are six inches taller than I already.’’ 

I have always thought that this simple speech was just the 
wisest I ever made in my life, because I was so very near 
saying what I should have repented ever after. Had I said 
what was in my heart, and almost on my lips, I might have 
destroyed the sweet friendship which existed then, as it still 
exists, pure and strong as the current of a great river. I 
thank God solemnly that I refrained my lips. Whoso,” 
says the wise man, keepeth his tongue keepeth his soul from 
trouble.” I loved her, that is most true ; in those days when 
I was yet struggling with the impulses of a passionate love, 
there were moments when the blood ran tingling and cours- 
ing through the veins, and when to beat down the words 
running riot in my brain, was almost beyond my strength. 
We were so much together, and she was so unconscious. She 
could not understand how her voice fell upon my soul like 
the rain upon a thirsty soil. Even when we were apart there 
was no moment when Celia was not present in my thoughts. 
All the morning the music of my pupils, even the very scales, 
sang, ‘‘ Celia, Celia, Celia,” in accents which varied with my 
moods, now wild and passionate, now soft and pleading, now 
hopeful, and now despairing. 


ON THE SEA-SHORE. 


123 


There was one time — I do not know how long it lasted — a 
week or a dozen weeks — when I was fain to pretend illness 
because the misery of crushing this hopeless love was too 
great for me, and I craved for solitude. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

I N those days the new suburb, which is now a large town, 
had hardly yet begun ; there was no sea-wall along the 
beach outside the harbour, and half a mile beyond the ram- 
part you might reach a place perfectly lonely and deserted. 
There was a common, a strip of waste land where the troops 
drilled and exercised, and beyond the common an old castle, 
a square and rather ugly pile built by Henry VIII., when he 
set up the fortresses of Sandown, Walmer, and Deal. It was 
surrounded by a star fort, and stood on the very edge of the 
sea, with a sloping face of stone which ran down to the edge 
of the water at low tide, and into the waves at high, pro- 
tecting the moat which surrounded the town. As a boy I 
regarded this fortress with reverence. There had been a 
siege there at the time of the Civil War. It was held for 
the King, but the governor, after a little fighting with his 
Roundhead besiegers, surrendered the castle, and then the 
town itself capitulated. One pictured the townsmen on the 
wall, looking out to see the fortunes of the battle, the men 
for Church and King side by side with their sour- faced 
brethren who were for God and country, the discomfiture of 
the former when the Royal Standard was hauled down, and 
the joy of the Puritans when their party marched in at the 
town gates. Of course in my young imagination I supposed 
that the town walls were just the same then as now, with 
their bastions, curtains, ravelins, and glacis. It was a lonely 
place in those days, fit for a dreamy boy, or a moody man. 
Beyond the castle the beach stretched far, far away under a 
low cliff of red earth, curving round in a graceful line ; behind 
the beach was a narrow strip of ground covered with patches 


124 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUE. 


of furze, whose yellow and sickly sweet blossoms seemed to 
flourish independently of all seasons; on its scanty edge grew 
sea poppies ; and here, amid the marshy ground which lay 
about, we used to hunt as boys for vipers, adders, and the 
little evvet, the alligator of Great Britain, who is as long as 
a finger and as venomous as a lamb. Sometimes, too, we 
would find gipsy encampments planted among the furze, 
with their gaudily-painted carts, their black tents — every 
real Rommany has a black tent like the modern Bedawi or 
the ancient dweller in the tents of Kedar. While we looked 
at the bright-eyed children and the marvellous old women 
crouching over the fire of sticks and the great black pot, 
there would come out of the tents one or two girls with olive 
skins and almond eyes — not the almond eyes of Syria, but 
bolder, darker, and brighter. They would come smiling in 
Leonard's face, asking him to cross his hand with silver. 
When he said he had no silver they would tell his fortune 
for nothing, reading the lines of his palm with a glibness 
which showed their knowledge of the art. But it was always 
a beautiful fortune, with love, fighting, wife, and children 
in it. 

Behind this acre or two of furze stood, all by itself, a mill, 
and there was a story about this mill, because its centre pillar, 
on which the vanes revolved, had once been part of the main- 
mast of a French frigate taken in action. And higher up 
the beach again — because this was a place full of historic 
associations — stood two old earthwork forts at intervals of 
half a mile. The ramparts were green with turf, the grass 
all blown inland, and lying on the days of summer in long 
swathes upon the slopes, beaten down by the sea breeze; 
the moats were dry, and these, too, were grown over with 
grass ; there was an open place at the back where once had 
been a gate and a drawbridge ; there was a stonework well in 
the open part of the enclosure, only some inclined to the 
belief that it was only a sham well and masked, 'prcetexto sub 
nomine j a subterranean passage to the castle ; the fronts of 
those forts were all destroyed and dragged down by the 
advancing tide. No ruined city in Central America, no 


ON THE SEA-SHORE. 


125 

temple of the Upper Nile, no tell of Konyounjik could be 
more desolate, more lonely, more full of imaginative associa- 
tions than these forts standing upon the unpeopled beach in 
a solitude broken only by the footstep of the Coastguard. 
Before Leonard went away, and when We were boys together, 
this place was to us as the uttermost part of the world, a 
retreat accessible on a holiday morning, where one could sit 
under the cliff or on the grassy slopes of the fort; where I, 
at least, could dream away the hours. Before us the waves 
ran along the shingle with a murmurous sh — sh — sh, or, if 
the day was rough, rolled up their hollow threatening crests 
like the upper teeth of a hungry monster’s jaw, and then 
dashed in rage upon the stones, dragging them down with a 
crash and a roar which rolled unceasingly along the beach. 
In the summer months it was Leonard’s delight at such times 
to strip and plunge, to swim over and through the great 
waves, riding to meet them, battling and wrestling till he 
grew tired, and came out red all over, and glowing with the 
exercise. After a storm the beach was strewn with odds 
and ends ; there were dead cuttlefish — ^Victor Hugo s pieuvre 
— their long and ugly arms powerless for mischief on the 
shingle ; their backbone was good for rubbing out ink, and 
we had stores enough to rub out all the ink of the Alexandrian 
Library. There were ropes of sea- weed thicker than the 
stoutest cable ; if you untwisted the coils you found in them 
strange creatures dead and alive — the sea-mouse, with its 
iridescent tufts of hair ; little crabs with soft shells killed by 
the rolling of the pebbles ; shells inhabited by scaly intruders, 
cuckoos among crabs, which poked out hard, spiky legs, and 
were ready to do battle for their stolen house ; starfish, ugly 
and poisonous, sea-nettles, and all kinds of sea-beetles. And 
lying outside the weed were bits of things from ships; candles, 
always plenty of tallow candles ; broken biscuits, which like 
so many of Eobinson Crusoe’s stores were spoiled by the sea- 
water ; empty bottles, bits of wood, and once we came upon 
a dead man rolling up and down. Leonard rushed into the 
water, and we pulled him up between two waves. He was 
dressed in sailor’s clothing, and wore great sea-boots, his 


126 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


face was bruised by the stones, and his black hair was cut 
short. Also he wore a moustache, so that he could not pos- 
sibly be an English sailor. When we had got him beyond 
the reach of the waves, we ran to tell the Coastguard, who 
was on the cliff half a mile away, telescope in hand. 

First he swore at us personally and individually for troub- 
ling him at all with the matter. Then, because Leonard 
‘‘up and spake” in answer, he changed the object of his 
swearing, and began to swear at large, addressing the much- 
enduring ocean, which made no reply, but went on with its 
business of rolling along the beach. Then he swore at him- 
self for being a Coastguardsman. This took altogether some 
quarter of an hour of good hard swearing, the excellent Solitary 
finding greater freedom as he went on. And he would have 
continued swearing, I believe, for many weeks if necessary, 
only that a thought struck him suddenly, like unto a fist 
going home in the wind, and he pulled up and gasped — 

“ Did you, did you,” he asked, “ look in that dead man’s 
pockets ? ” 

We said “ No.” 

Then he became thoughtful, and swore quite to himself 
between the teeth, as if he was firing volleys of oaths down 
his own throat. 

“ Now, lads,” he said at last, “ what you’ve got to do is 
this. You’ve got to go straight away to the parish,” which 
I suppose he took for a police office, “ and tell the parish to 
come here and look after that man. I am not stationed here 
to look after dead men. I’m for live smugglers, I am. You 
tell the parish that. Not but what its proper for you to tell 
the Coastguard everything that goes on along the coast. 
And next time you fish up a drownded man you come 
straight to me first. No manner o’ use to look in their 
pockets because they’ve never got nothing in ’em. Them 
nasty fishes, you see, they gets into the pockets and pulls 
out the purses.” 

His belief in the emptiness of drowned men’s pockets did 
not prevent him from testing its correctness. At least we 
looked back, and observed him searching diligently. But I 


ON THE SEA-SHORE. 


127 


suppose lie was riglit, because the parish ” certainly found 
nothing in the pockets. 

It was to this place that I came, as to a wilderness, to 
struggle with myself. Here I was free to think, to brood, 
and to bring railing accusations against Providence because 
I could not marry Celia. Sitting on the lonely beach I could 
find a gloomy satisfaction in piling up my grievances against 
high Heaven. Who was I that I should be singled out for 
special and signal misfortune ? Had I been as other men, 
tall, straight, and comely, Celia might have loved me. Had 
I come to her gallant and strong, rich and noble, one born in 
high station, the son of a brave and successful father, I might 
have had a chance. 

Day after day I wandered here brooding over my own 
wrongs, with bitter and accusing soul. The voice of the sea 
echoed the sorrow of my heart ; the long roll from left to 
right of the ebbing or the rising wave was the setting of a 
.soug whose words were all of despair; the dancing of the 
sunlit waves brought no joy ; my heart was dead to the blue 
sky, flecked with the white wing of seagull, and dotted along 
the distant horizon with the far-off sails of passing ships. It 
pleased me to lie there, with my chin upon my hand, think- 
ing of what ought to have been. During this time I was 
with Celia as little as possible, and at home not at all. Both 
she and the Captain, I remember now, were considerate, and 
left me alone, to w^orry through with the trouble, whatever 
it was. It was not all hopeless ; it was partly that for the 
first time in my life I thoroughly understood what I was, 
what my prospects were, and what I might have been. I 
said at the beginning that it takes a long time for a hunch- 
back entirely to realise what his aflliction means ; how it 
cuts him off from other men’s pursuits ; and how it isolates 
him from his youth upwards. I saw before me, as plainly as 
I see it now, a solitary life ; I thought that the mediocrity of 
my abilities would never allow me to become a composer of 
eminence, or anything better than the organist of a church 
and the teacher of music in a country town ; I should always 


128 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUB. 


be poor ; I should never have the love of woman ; I should 
always be a kind of servant ; I should live in obscurity and 
die in oblivion. Most of us live some such lives ; at least 
they can be reduced, in hard terms, to some such colourless, 
dreary wastes of weary years ; but we forget the compensa- 
tions. My dream was true of myself ; I have actually lived 
the life of a mediocre musician ; I have few friends, and yet 
I have been perfectly happy. I did not marry Celia ; that I 
may premise at once ; and yet I have been happy without 
her. For I retained her love, the pure and calm affection of 
a sister, which is with me still, making much of me, petting 
and spoiling me almost while I write, as it did twenty years 
ago. Surely there was never any woman before so good as 
Celia. The vision of my life was prophetic ; it looked in- 
tolerable, and it has been more than pleasant. Say to your- 
self, you have thirty years to live ; you will rise every morn- 
ing to drudgery ; you will live poorly, and will make no 
money ; you will have no social consideration ; you will make 
few friends ; you will fail to achieve any reputation in your 
profession ; you will be a lonely man — is that a prospect to 
charm any one ? Add to this that your life will be contented, 
that you will not dislike your work, that you will not live for 
yourself alone, that your days will be cheered by the steady 
sunshine of affection ; and the prospect changes. Everything 
in the world is of magic. To some this old town of ours has 
seemed dirty, crowded, mean ; to me it is picturesque, full of 
human interest, rich in association. To some my routine 
would be maddening ; to me it is graceful and pleasant. To 
some — to most — a career which has no prizes has no joys. 
To me it is full of joys. We are what we think ourselves; 
we see everything through the haze of imagination ; why — I 
am told that there is no such thing as colour in nature, but 
that it is an effect of light — so long as the effect is produced 
I do not care ; let me only thank the Creator for this bunch 
of sweet peas in a glass before me, with their soft and delicate 
tints more beautiful than ever human pencil drew. We see 
what we think we see ; people are what we think they are ; 
events are what they seem to us ; the man who least enjoys 


ON THE SEA-SHORE. 


129 


tlie world is the man who has the faculty of stripping things 
of their “ effects ; ” who takes the colour from the flower, or 
the disinterestedness from love. That is common sense, and 
I would rather be without it. 

One evening — it was after dusk and rather cold — I was 
still sitting in the enjoyment of a profound misery, when I 
became aware of a Voice addressing me. The Voice was 
inside my head and there was no sound, but I heard it plainly. 
I do not pretend that there was anything supernatural about 
the fact, nor do I pretend to understand how it happened. 
It sprang from the moody and half-distracted condition of my 
mind : it was the return of the overstretched spring : it was 
the echo of my accustomed thoughts, for the last fortnight 
pent up and conflned in narrow cells to make room for the 
unaccustomed thoughts. This is exactly what the Voice said 
to me — 

You were a poor Polish boy, living in exile, and Heaven 
sent you the Captain to educate you, give you the means of 
living, and make you a Christian gentleman, when you might 
have grown up among the companions of profligate sailors. 
You are an orphan, with neither mother, brother, nor sister. 
You have no relations to care for you at all. Heaven sent 
you Leonard to be your brother, and Celia to be your sister. 
Prom your earliest infancy you have been wrapped in the love 
of these two. You are deformed, it is true ; you cannot do 
the things that some men delight in. Heaven has sent you 
the great gift of Music : it is another sense by which you are 
lifted above the ordinary run of men. Every hour in the 
day it is your privilege as a musician to soar above the earth, 
and lose yourself in divine harmonies. You have all this — 
and you complain. 

Ungrateful ! With these favours you sit here crying 
because you cannot have one thing more. You would have 
Celia love you, and marry you. Are you worthy of such a 
girl? 

House yourself. Go back to your work. Show a brave and 
cheerful face to the good old man your benefactor. Let Celia 
cease to wonder whether she has pained you, and to search 

I 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


130 

her heart for words she has never spoken ; work for her and 
with her again ; let her never know that you have hungered 
after the impossible even to sickness. 

“ And one more thing. Eemember Leonard’s parting words. 
Are you blind or are you stupid ? With what face could you 
meet him when he comes home, and say, ‘ Leonard, you left 
me to take care of Celia ; you trusted to my keeping the 
secret of your own love. I have betrayed your confidence, 
and stolen away her heart.’ Think of that.” 

The Voice ceased, and I arose and walked home changed. 

The Captain looked up as I entered the room, in a wistful, 
sad way. 

Forgive me, sir,” I said. I have been worrying myself 
— never mind what about, but it is over now, and I am sorry 
to have given you trouble.” 

“ You have fought it down then, Laddy ? ” he asked, pulling 
off his spectacles. 

I started. Did he, then, read my soul ? Was my secret 
known to all the world ? 

Only to him, I think. 

When I was a young fellow,” he went on, walking up and 
down the room with his hands behind him, I fell in love — 
with a young lady. I believed that young lady to be an 
angel, and I daresay she was. But I found that she couldn’t 
be my angel, so I went to sea, which was a very good way 
of getting through that trouble. I had a spell on the West 
Coast — caught yellow fever — chased the slavers — forgot it.” 

I laughed. 

Do you recommend me to go out slave- chasing, sir ? ” 

You might do worse, boy. She is a beautiful creature, 
Laddy, she is a pearl among maidens. I have always loved 
her. I have watched her with you, Laddy, and all the love 
is on your side. I have seen the passion grow in you ; you 
have been restless and fidgety. I remembered my own case, 
and I waited. No, my boy, it can’t be : I wish it could ; she 
does not look on you in that light.” 

After supper he spoke allegorically. 

I’ve known men — good men, too — grumble at their posts 


LA VIE DE PKOVINCE. 


131 

in an action. What does it matter, Laddy, when the enemy 
has struck, where any one man has to do his duty? The 
thing is to do it.’’ 

This parable had its personal application, like most of the 
Captain’s admonitions. 

“ You have been unlike yourself, Laddy, lately,” said Celia. 

Yes, Cis, I have been ill, I think.” 

Not fretting, Laddy, over things.” 

I shook my head. 

It seems hard, poor boy, sometimes, does it not ? But 
your life will not be wasted, though you spend it all in teach- 
ing music.” 

She thought I had been brooding over my deformity and 
poverty. Well, so I had, in a sense. 

Enough of my fit. The passion disappeared at length, the 
love remained. Side by side with such a girl as Celia, one 
must have been lower than human not to love her. Such a 
love is an education. I know little of grown women, because 
I spend my time among girls, and have had no opportunity 
of studying woman’s nature, except that of Celia. But I can 
understand what is meant when I read that the love of 
woman may raise a man to Heaven or drag him down to 
Hell. Out of this earthly love which we share in common 
with the lowest, there spring for all of us, we know, flowers 
of rare and wondrous beauty. And those who profit most 
by these blossoms sometimes express their nature to the 
world in music and in verse. 


CHAPTEE XV. 

LA VIE DE PROVINCE. 

T he twenty-fourth of May was not only the Queen’s birth- 
day, and therefore kept a holiday in the port, with 
infinite oflScial rejoicings and expenditure of powder, but also 
Celia’s as well. On that account it was set apart for one of 
the Tyrrells’ four annual dinner-parties, and was treated as 
a Church festival or fast day. This was the period of early 


132 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR. 


Christianity, when any ecclesiastical day, whether of sorrowful 
or joyful commemoration, were marked by a better dinner 
than usual, and the presence of wine. On Ash Wednesday 
and Good Friday we had salt fish, followed, at the Tyrrells’, 
by a sumptuous repast, graced by the presence of a few 
guests, and illustrated, so to speak, by a generous fiow of 
port, of which every respectable Briton then kept a cellar, 
carefully labelled and laid down years before. The novus 
homo in a provincial town might parade his plate, his dinner 
service, his champagne — then reckoned a very ostentatious 
wine. He might affect singularity by preferring claret to port, 
and he might even invite his guests to drink of strange and 
unknown wines, such as Sauterne, Bucellas, Lisbon, or even 
Hock. But one thing he could not do: he could not boast of his 
old cellar, because everybody would know that he had bought 
it. Mr. Tyrrell was conscious of this, and being himself a 
novas homo, he evaded the difficulty by referring his wine to 
the cellar of Mr. Pontifex, the husband of Mrs. Tyrrell’s aunt. 
Now Mr. Pontifex was a man of good county family, and 
his port, laid down by his father before him, was not to be 
gainsaid by the most severe critic. Criticism, in our town, 
neglecting Literature and the Fine Arts, confined itself to 
port, in the first instance, municipal affairs in the second, 
and politics in the third. As the two latter subjects ran in 
well-known grooves, it is obvious that the only scope for 
original thought lay in the direction of port. Bound this 
subject f/ere grouped the choicest anecdotes, the sweetest 
flowers of fancy, the deepest yearnings of the Over-soul. A 
few houses were rivals in the matter of port. The Bev. Mr. 
Broughton, our old tutor, was acknowledged to have some 
’34 beyond all praise, but as he gave few dinner-parties, on 
the score of poverty, there were not many who could boast 
of having tasted it. Little Dr. Boy had a small cellar brought 
from Newfoundland or New Brunswick, whither, as every- 
body knows, the Portugal trade carries yearly a small quanity 
of finer wine than ever comes to the London market. The 
Bev. John Pontifex inherited, as I have already said, a 
cellar by which Mr. Tyrrell was the principal gainer. 


LA VIE DE PKOVINCE. 


133 


There were two or three retired officers who had made 
good use of their opportunities on the Kock and elsewhere. 
And the rest were nowhere. As Mr. Broughton said, after 
an evening out of the ‘^best” set, that is, the set who had 
cellars worth considering, the fluid was lamentable. Good 
or bad, the allowance for every guest at dinner was liberal, 
amounting to about a bottle and a half a head, though 
seasoned topers might take more. It was port, with rum 
and water, which produced those extraordinary noses which 
I remember in my childhood. There was the nose garnished 
like Bardolph^s with red blossoms ; there was the large nose, 
swollen in all its length ; there was the nose with the great 
red protuberance, waggling as the wearer walked, or agitated 
by the summer breeze ; and there was the nose which paled 
while it grew, carrying its general appearance, not a full- 
voiced song and pinan of rum, like its brothers of the ruddy 
blossom and the ruby blob, but a gentle suspicion of long 
evening drinks and morning drams. Some men run to 
‘weight as they grow old ; some dry up. It is a matter of 
temperament. So some of those old topers ran to red and 
swollen nose, rubicund of colour and bright with many a 
blossom; while some ran to a pallid hue and shrunken 
dimensions. It is true that these were old stagers — the 
scanty remnant of a generation most of whom were long 
since tucked up in bed and fallen sound asleep. The younger 
men — of George Tyrrell’s stamp — were more moderate. A 
simple bottle of port after dinner generally sufficed for their 
modest wants; and they did not drink rum at all. The 
Captain, for his part, took his rations regularly : a glass of 
port every day, and two on Sunday ; a tumbler of grog every 
night and two on Sunday. To Sundays, as a good Churchman, 
he added, of course, the feasts and festivals of the Church. 

Let us return to these occasions. 

On Good Friday, it was — it is still, I believe — de rigueur 
to make yourself ill by eating Hot Cross Buns, which were 
sold in the streets to the tune of a simple ditty, sung by the 
vendors. On Whit Sunday, who so poor as not to have 
gooseberry-pie, unless the season was very backward ? Lamb 


134 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


came in with Easter, and added its attractions to heighten 
the spiritual joy of the season. Easter eggs were not yet 
invented ; but everybody put on something new for the day. 
The asceticism of Lent had no terrors for those who, like 
ourselves, began it with more than the customary feasting, 
conducted it without any additional services, broke its gloom 
by Mothering Sunday, and ended it by two feasts,. separated 
by one day only. The hungriest Christian faced its terrors 
with cheek unblanched and his lips firm ; he came out of it 
no thinner than he went in; as for the spiritual use he made 
of that season, it was a matter for his conscience to determine, 
not for me to resolve. We marked its presence in Church 
by draping the pulpit, reading desk, and clerk’s desk with 
black velvet, instead of red. The Rev. Mr. Broughton always 
explained the bearings of Lent according to the ordinances 
of the Church, and explained very carefully that fasting, in 
our climate, and in the northern latitude, was to be taken in 
a spiritual, not a carnal sense. It was never meant, he said, 
that Heaven’s gifts were to be neglected, whatever the season 
might be. Nor was it intended by Providence, in the great 
Christian scheme, that we were to endanger the health of the 
body by excessive abstinence. This good shephei*d preached 
what he practised, and practised what he preached. During 
Lent the hymns, until I became organist, were taken more 
slowly than at other seasons, so that it was a great time for 
the old ladies on the triangular brackets. The Captain, who 
had an undeveloped ear for music, said that caterwauling was 
not singing praises, but it was only fair to let every one have 
his watch, turn and turn about, and that if the commanding 
officer — meaning Mr. Broughton — allowed it, we had to put 
up with it. But he gave out the tools ” with an air of 
pitiful resignation. On Trinity Sunday, Mr. Broughton, in a 
discourse of twenty minutes, confronted the Unbeliever, and 
talked him down with such an array of argument that when 
the benediction came there was nothing left of him. It is 
curious that whenever I, which is once a year, read that 
splendid encounter between Greatheart and Apollyon, I 
always think of Mr. Broughton and Trinity Sunday. When 


LA VIE EE PROVINCE. 


135 


Apollyon was quite worsted and we were dismissed, we went 
home to a sort of Great Grand Day dinner, a Gaudy, a City 
Feast, a Commemoration Banquet, to which all other Chris- 
tian festivals, except Christmas, were mere trifles. For on 
Trinity Sunday, except when east winds were more protracted 
than usual, there were salmon, lamb, peas, duckling, early 
gooseberries, and asparagus. 

From Trinity Sunday to Advent was a long stretch, un- 
marked by any occasion of feasting. I used to wonder why 
the Church had invented nothing to All up that space, and 
I commiserated the hard lot of Dissenters, to whom their 
religion gave no times for feasting. 

The influence of custom hedged round the whole of life 
for us. It even regulated the amount of our hospitalities. 
Things were expected of people in a certain position. The 
Tyrrells, for instance, could hardly do less than give four 
dinner-parties in the year. Others not in so good a position 
might maintain their social rank with two. Retired officers 
were not expected to show any hospitality at all. To be sure 
this concession was necessary unless the poor fellows, who 
generally had large and hungry families, were allowed to 
entertain, after the manner of Augustus Brambler, on bread 
and cheese. Mrs. Pontifex again, who had very decided 
Christian views, but was of good country family, admitted 
her responsibilities by offering one annual banquet of the 
more severe order. A bachelor, like Mr. Verney Broughton, 
was exempt from this social tax. He gave very few dinners. 
To make up for this, he would ask one man at a time, and set 
before him such a reminiscence of Oriel in a solid dinner, 
with a bottle of crusted port after it, as to make that guest 
dissatisfied with his wife’s catering for a month to come. 

The guests were divided into sets, with no regard for their 
special fitness or individual likings, but simply in accordance 
with recognised social status. The advantage of this arrange- 
ment was that you knew beforehand whom you would meet, 
and what would be talked about. I knew all the sets, 
because at most of their entertainments I was a guest, and 
at some a mere uwhra^ invited as ami defamille^ who would 


136 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


play and sing after dinner. On these occasions my profes- 
sion was supposed to be merged in the more creditable fact 
of my illustrious birth. When strangers came I never failed 
to overhear the whisper, after the introduction, Count 
Pulaski in Poland, but refuses to bear the title in England. 
Of very high Polish family.” One gets used to most things 
in time. Mr. Tyrrell divided his dinner-guests into four sets. 
In October we had lawyers, one or two doctors, perhaps a 
clergyman, and their wives. At the summer feast (which 
was the most important, and was fixed with reference to the 
full moon for convenience of driving home) there were the 
important clients, who came in great state, in their own 
carriages. In February we entertained a humbler class of 
townspeople, who were also clients. And in December we 
generally entertained the Mayor and officers of the borough, 
a thing due to Mr. Tyrrell’s connection with the Municipality. 
The May banquet was wholly of a domestic character. The 
dinners were solid and heavy, beginning early and lasting 
an immense time. After dinner the men sat for an hour or 
two consuming large quantities of port. 

“ If this,” Celia used to say, is society, I think, Laddy, 
that I prefer solitude.” 

She and I used to sing and play duets together, after 
dinner, occasionally giving way to any young lady who 
expected to be asked to sing. The songs of the day were 
not bad, but they lasted too long. It is more than possible 
to tire, in the course of years, of such a melody as “ Isle of 
Beauty ” or Love Not ” (a very exasperating piece of long- 
drawn music), or ‘‘ My Pretty Page,” a sentimentally beau- 
tiful thing. The men, some of whom had red faces after the 
port, mostly hung about the doors together, while the ladies 
affected great delight in turning over old albums and well- 
known portfolios of prints. Photographs began to appear 
in some provincial drawing-rooms in the early fifties, but 
they were not yet well-established. It was a transition 
period. Keepsakes and Books of Beauty were hardly yet 
out of fashion, while portrait albums were only just begin- 
ning. Daguerreotypes, things which, regarded from all but 


LA VIE DE PROVINCE. 


ny 

one point of view, showed a pair of spectral eyes and nothing 
else, lay on the table in red leather cases. Mural decoration 
was an art yet in its infancy, and there must have been, now 
one comes to think of it, truly awful things to be witnessed 
in the shape of vases, jars, and ornamented mantel- shelves ; 
the curtains, the carpets, the chairs, and the sofas were in 
colours not to be reconciled on any principle of Art. And I 
doubt very much whether we should like now the fashion in 
which young ladies wore their hair, dressed their sleeves, 
and arranged their skirts. Fashion is the most wonderful oi 
all human vanities ; and the most remarkable thing about it 
is, that whether a pretty girl disguises herself in Queen 
Anne’s hoops, Elizabethan petticoats, immense Pompadour 
coiffure, Victorian crinoline, or Republican scantiness, whether 
she puts patches and paint on her cheek, whether she runs 
great rings through her nose, whether she wears a coal- 
scuttle for a bonnet, as thirty years ago, or an umbrella for 
a hat, as last year, whether she displays her figure as this 
year, or hides it altogether as fifteen years ago, whether she 
walks as Nature meant her to walk or affects a stoop, whether 
she pretends in the matter of hair and waist, or whether she 
is content with what the gods have given her — she cannot, 
she may not, succeed in destroying her beauty. Under every 
disguise the face and figure of a lovely woman are as 
charming, as bewitching, as captivating, as under any 
other. W^hen it comes to young women who are not pretty 
— but, perhaps, as the large-hearted Frenchman said, 
il Ti^y en a pas — there are no young women who are not 
pretty. 

We were, then, ignorant of Art in my young days. Art 
in provincial towns as commonly understood did not exist at 
all. To be sure, we had an Art speciality of which we might 
have been proud. There was no place in the world which 
could or did turn out more splendid ships’ figure-heads. 
There was one old gentleman in particular, a genius in 
figure-head carving, who had his studio in the Dockyard, 
and furnished her Majesty’s Navy with bows, decorated in 
so magnificent a style, that one, who, like me, remembers 


BY CELIA'S ABBOUR. 


13S 

them, is fain to weep in only looking at the figure-headless 
ironclads of the present degenerate days. 

As for conversation after dinner, there was not much 
between the younger men and the ladies, because really there 
was hardly anything to talk about except one’s neighbours. 
In London, probably, people talked as much as they do now, 
but in a country town, as yet unexplored by Mudie or Smith, 
there could be very few topics of common interest between a 
young man and a girl. The Great Exhibition of 1851 did 
one great service for country people; it taught them how 
easy it is to get to London, and what a mine of wealth, 
especially for after memory and purposes of conversation, 
exists in that big place. But remember that five and twenty 
years ago, in the family circle of a country town, there were 
no periodical visits to the town, no holidays on the Continent, 
no new books, no monthly magazines ; even illustrated news- 
papers were rarely seen : there was no love of Art or talk 
of artistic principles, or Art schools; there were no choral 
societies, no musical services : no croquet, or Badminton, or 
lawn tennis. And yet people were happy. Celias social 
circle was too limited to make her feel the want of topics 
of conversation with young men. No young man except 
myself was ever invited to the house, and of course I hardly 
counted. 

When the formal dinner-parties were held, the guests at 
these banquets were principally old and middle-aged people. 

-At our birthday dinner only the very intimate friends and 
relations were invited. Mr. Tyrrell had no relations ; or at 
least we never heard of them, but his wife was well connected ; 
the Pontifexes are known to be a good old county family, and 
Mrs. Pontifex, Mrs. Tyrrell’s aunt, often asserted the claims 
of her own ancestry, who were Toplingtons, to be of equal 
rank with her husband’s better known line. 

Of course, the Pontifexes always came to the dinners. 

Mrs. Pontifex — Aunt Jane — was fifteen years older than 
her husband, and at this time, I suppose, about sixty-five 
years of age. She was small in person, but upright and 
gaunt beyond her inches. It is a mistake to suppose — I 


LA VIE DE PEOVIKCE. 


139 


learned this from considering Mrs. Pontifex as a Leading 
Case — that ganntness necessarily implies a tall stature. Not 
at all. If,” I said to Ois one day, ^ if you were to wear, as 
Aunt Jane wears, a cap of severely Puritanic aspect, decorated 
with a few flowers which might have grown in a cemetery ; 
if you were to arrange your hair, as she arranges it, in a 
double row, stiff curls, set horizontally on each side of her 
face; if you were to sit bolt upright, with your elbows 
square, as if you were always in a pew ; if you were to keep 
the corners of your lips down — as Aunt Jane does — so — Cis 
— why even you would be gaunt. John of Gaunt, so called 
because he resembled Aunt Jane, was, I believe, a man under 
the middle height.” 

She married the Eev. John Pontifex, or rather they 
married each other, chiefly for money. They both had 
excellent incomes which united made a large income ; they 
were both desperately careful and saving people ; they held 
similar views on religious matters (they were severe views), 
and I suppose that Aunt Jane had long learned to rule John 
Pontifex when she invited him — even Cis used to agree that 
he would never have invited her — to become her husband. 

Mr. Pontifex was a man of lofty but not commanding 
stature. Another mistake of novelists and people who write. 
You have not necessarily a commanding stature because you 
are tall. No one could have seen anything commanding in 
Mr. John Pontifex. He was six feet two in height, and, 
although by nature austere, he looked as meek as if he had 
been only five feet; the poor man, indeed, never had the 
chance of looking anything but meek; he had a pale face 
and smooth cheeks, with thin brown hair, a little grey and 
gone off” at the temples. His features were made remark- 
able by a very long upper lip, which gave him a mutton-like 
expression as of great meekness coupled with some obstinacy. 
In fact, she who drove John Pontifex had at times to study 
the art of h ...mouring her victim. Since his marriage he had 
retired from active pastoral work, and now passed his time 
in the critical observation of other men at work in his own 
field. He held views of the most Evangelical type, and 


140 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


wlien he preached at St. Faith's we received without any 
compromise the exact truth as regards future prospects. He 
spoke very slowly, bringing out his nouns in capitals, as it 
were, and involved his sentences with parentheses. But in 
the presence of his wife he spoke seldom, because she always 
interrupted him. He was fond of me, and for some reason 
of his own, always called me Johnny. 

In strong contrast with his clerical brother was the Perpe- 
tual Curate of St. Faith's, my old tutor, Mr. Verney Broughton. 
The latter was as plump, as rosy, as jolly as the former was 
thin, tall, and austere. Calvin could not have looked on the 
world's follies with a more unforgiving countenance than the 
Eev. John Pontifex ; Friar John could hardly have regarded 
the worldliness of the world with more benignity than Rev. 
Verney Broughton. He was a kind-hearted man, and loved 
the world, with the men, women, and children upon it ; he 
was a scholar and student, consequently he loved the good 
things that had been written, said, and sung upon it ; he 
was a gourmand, and he liked to enjoy the fruits of the 
earth in due season. Perhaps he loved the world too much 
for a Christian minister; at all events, he enjoyed it as much 
as he could ; never disguised his enjoyment, and inculcated 
both in life and preaching a perfect trust in the goodness of 
God, deep thankfulness for the gifts of eating and drinking, 
and reliance on the ordinances of the Church. Mr. Pontifex 
amused him ; they were close companions, which added to 
the pleasures of life ; and he entertained, I shall say, dislike 
for no man in the world except Herr Raumer, whom he could 
not be brought to admire. 

He is a cynic,” he would say. That school has never 
attracted my admiration. He delights in the doiible entendre^ 
and is never so much pleased as when he conveys a hidden 
sneer. I do not like that kind of conversation. Give me 
honest enthusiasm, admiration, and faith. And I prefer 
Englishmen, Ladislas, my boy, though you are only an 
Englishman by adoption.” 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A DINNER-PARTY, 


HERE were several other people who entertained similar 



J- views with regard to Herr Raumer. Mrs. Pontifex dis- 
liked him excessively for one. Everybody began with dis- 
trust of this man ; then they grew to tolerate him ; some 
went on to like him ; all ended with cordial hatred — it would 
be hard to say why. His eyes, without the blue spectacles, 
which he put off indoors, were singularly bright, though rather 
small. He had a way of turning their light full on to a 
speaker without speaking, which was as embarrassing a com- 
mentary on what you had just said as you can imagine. It 
conveyed to yourself and to everybody else, which was even 
more humiliating, the idea that you were really, to this 
gentleman’s surprise, even a greater fool than you looked. 
Perhaps that was one reason why he was so much disliked. 

You noticed, too, after a time, that he saw everything, 
heard everything, and remembered everything. When he 
spoke about his personal reminiscences, he showed an aston- 
ishing recollection of detail as if he preserved photographs 
of places and persons in his mind. 

He was always about Mr. Tyrrell’s ofBce, and kept there a 
fireproof safe, with his name painted on it in white letters. 
He carried the key in his own pocket. Of course I knew nothing 
of the nature of his business, but it was generally understood 
that he was a German who had money, that he chose to live 
in our town for his own pleasure and convenience, and that 
he invested his funds by Mr. Tyrrell’s h^lp and advice in local 
securities. 

The Captain and little Dr. Roy always made up the party. 
Everybody liked the little doctor, who stood five feet nothing 
in his boots, a neat and well-proportioned abridgment of 
humanity, with a humorous face and a twinkling eye. He 
was an Irishman; he had been in America; and it was 
currently reported that if he ventured his foot on Canadian 
soil he would infallibly be hanged for the part he took in the 


142 


BY CELIA’S ARBOtTB. 


rebellion of eighteen hundred and forty something. In cer- 
tain circles he had the reputation of being an Atheist — 
he was in reality as good a Roman Catholic as ever touched 
holy water — because he was constantly crying oat about bad 
drainage, and taunting people with the hundreds of lives 
wantonly thrown away, he said, every year, and struck down 
by preventible diseases. ‘^As if,” the people said piously, 
the issues of life and death were in man’s hand.” So typhus 
fever went on, and the town was not drained. 

The birthday dinners were all alike, with the same guests. 
The year went on, and we met on the anniversary to drink 
Celia’s health and talk the same talk. Let me take one of 
these dinners, the last at which this company met together 
for this purpose. 

The Rev. Mr. Broughton took in Mrs. Tyrrell, so that Celia 
fell to Mr. Pontifex ; Mrs. Pontifex, of course, took Mr. Tyrrell’s 
arm. The grace was pronounced ” by Mr. Broughton. He 
was less unctuous over the petition than poor Augustus Bram- 
bler, but he threw considerable feeling into the well-known 
words, and had a rich, melodious voice, a fitting prelude to 
the banquet. Grace said, the benevolent divine surveyed the 
guests and the table with the eyes of satisfaction, as if he 
wished it was always feast time. 

There were no menus laid on the table in those days, and 
you did not know what was coming as you do now. But 
there was the smell of roast meats which, if you remember 
what things belong to the season, was almost as good as a 
menu. And the things were put on the table. There were 
no dinners la JRusse. You saw your food before you. The 
host carved, too, and very laborious work it was. But it was 
still reckoned part of a gentleman’s education to carve with dis- 
cretion and skill. I should like to have seen Mr. Broughton’s 
face if he had been compelled to sit in silence during the 
mangling of a hare. Perhaps, however, he was too much of 
a martinet, and rLe exquisite finish with which he distributed 
a pheasant among half-a-dozen guests, however admirable as 
a work of Art, pointed to an amount of thought in the direc- 
tion of dinner beyond what is now expected of the clergy. 


A DINNER-PAKTY. 


H3 


Mr. Pontifex, on the other hand, was a wretched carver. 

‘‘ I am now more at ease/’ he would say, in the Pulpit 
than in the Place of the Carver, though, in my youth, when 
I was at Oxford, when, alas ! the pleasures of the — ahem — 
the Table, were in my day placed above the pleasures of the 
Soul — I was considered expert in the Art of Carving. There 
was one occasion, I remember — with sorrow — when a Goose 

was placed upon the board ” 

I wish, Mrs. Tyrrell,” interrupted Mr. Broughton — and 
indeed we had all heard the goose story before — I wish I 
could persuade my landlady to give the same thoughtfulness to 
things as your cook. It is so difficult to make some women 
understand the vital importance of dinner. I can order the 
raw materials, but I cannot, unfortunately, cook them.” 

Mrs. Pontifex, I saw, sat opposite her husband, who took 
his dinner under her superintendence. I sat next to that 
divine, and felt pity for him as a warning or prohibition 
came across the table, and he had to shake his head in 
sorrowful refusal. 

In his rich, mellow voice, Mr. Broughton, on receiving 
his fish, remarked — 

‘‘ The third time this year, and only the 24th of May, that 
I have partaken of salmon. The Lord is very good ” 

‘‘No, John Pontifex,” said that clergyman’s wife loudly, 
“ no salmon for you.” 

“ My dear,” he ventured to expostulate feebly, because he 
was particularly fond of salmon. 

“ Ladislas Pulaski, who is young, may make himself ill with 
salmon and cucumber if he likes,” said Aunt Jane, “but not 
you, John Pontifex. Eemember the last time.” 

He sighed, and I took the portion intended for him. 

“The Lord is very good,” resumed Mr. Broughton, “to 
nearly all His creatures,” as if Pontifex was an exception. 

Dr. Roy began to talk of salmon-fishing in the Saguenay 
River, and we were all interested except poor Mr. Pontifex, 
whose face was set in so deep a gloom that I thought he 
would have rebelled. 

He picked up a little when an entree of pigeons wag 


144 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


allowed to stop at his elbow. But the undisguised enjoy- 
ment with which he drank his first glass of champagne 
brought his wife, who was at that moment talking of a new 
and very powerful tract, down upon him in a moment. 

No more champagne, John Pontifex,” she ordered 
promptly. 

Another glass for me,” cried Mr. Broughton, nodding 
his head. A glass of wine with you, Mrs. Pontifex. I am 
a bachelor, you know, and can do as I like.” 

It was not manners to refuse, and Aunt Jane raised her 
glass to her lips icily, while Mr. Broughton drained his with 
an audible smack. In 1858 we had already in provincial 
towns passed out of the custom of taking wine with each 
other, but it was still observed by elderly people who liked 
the friendly fashion of their youth. 

I thought this assertion of independence rather cruel to 
Mr. Pontifex, but it was not for me, belonging, with Celia, 
to the class of “young people,” to say anything at a party 
unless previously spoken to or questioned. Then Aunt Jane 
began a talk with Herr Raumer, chiefly about the sins of 
people. As you came to know this German well, you dis- 
covered that, whenever he did talk about people, he had 
something bad to say of them ; also when he spoke of any 
action, however insignificant, it was to find an unworthy 
motive for it. Perhaps, however, I am now in that fourth 
and bad stage mentioned above. 

Mr. Tyrrell was silent during the dinner, perhaps because 
he had to carve industriously and dexterously ; he drank 
wine freely ; but he said nothing. Celia noticed her father s 
taciturnity, and I saw her watching him with anxiety. No 
one else observed it, and when the first stiffness of ceremony 
wore off, there began the genial flow of conversation which 
ought to rejoice the heart of a hostess, because it shows that 
every one is feeding in content. Mr. Tyrrell, a florid, high- 
coloured man, who usually talked fast and rather noisily, 
was looking pale ; the nerves of his cheek twitched, and his 
hand trembled. 

When the cloth was removed — I am not certain that the 


A DINNER-PAETY. 


145 


old fashion of wine and dessert on the polished dark mahogany 
was not better than the present — we all drank Celia’s health. 

“In bumpers/’ cried Mr. Broughton, filling up Mrs. 
Tyrrell’s glass and his own to the brim with port. “ In 
bumpers all. And I wish I was a young man again to toast 
Celia Tyrrell as she should be toasted. Don’t you, Brother 
Pontifex ? Here is to your leaux yexix^ my dear. Some day 
I will preach a sermon on thankfulness for beauty.” 

“ God bless you, Celia, my child,” said her father, with a 
little emotion in his voice. “ Many happy returns of the day, 
and every one better than the last.” 

“ The best thing,” continued Mr. Broughton, “ for young 
girls is a young husband — eh, Mrs. Tyrrell ? What do you 
think?” 

“Vanity,” said Aunt Jane. ^‘Let them wait and look 
round them. I was thirty-five when I married my first.” 

“When I was at Oxford,” Mr. Pontifex be^an, glancing 
anxiously at his wife — “ When I was at Brazenose, Oxford 
(where I was known, I am ashamed to say, as — as — as Co- 
rin-thian Pon-ti-fex, on account* of the extraordinary levity, 
even in that assemblage of reckless youths, of my disposition), 
there were some among us commonly designated as — as — as 
Three — Bottle — Men!!!” He said this with an air of 
astonishment, as if it was difficult to credit, and a thing which 
ought, if printed, to be followed by several notes of admira- 
tion. “ Three — Bottle — Men ! The rule among us was — I 
regret to say — No— ahem — no Heeltaps.” 

“ John Pontifex ! ” interposed his wife severely. “ Recollect 
yourself. ‘ No Heeltaps,’ indeed ! ” 

“ My dear, I was about to conclude this sad Reminiscence 
by remarking that it was a Truly Shocking State of Things.” 

He spoke in capitals, so to speak, and with impressive 
slowness. 

“When young people are present,” said Aunt Jane, “it 
is well to consider the religious tendency of anecdotes before 
they are related.” 

Mr. Pontifex said no more. 

“I will tell you, by-and-bye, Pontifex,” said the jolly old 


146 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUE. 


parson, wRose face was a good deal redder than at the com- 
mencement of dinner, I will tell you, when the ladies have 
left us, some of our experiences in Common Eoom. Don’t 
be afraid, Mrs. Pontifex, we shall not emulate the deeds ot 
those giants.’’ 

In my house,” said Aunt Jane to her niece reproachfully, 
‘‘ it is one of our Christian privileges not to sit over wine 
after dinner ; we all rise together.” 

‘‘ From a lady’s point of view,” observed Herr Eaumer, 
doubtless an admirable practice.” 

Not at all admirable,” cried the Captain, who had been 
quiet during dinner. Why shouldn’t we have half-an-hour 
to ourselves to talk politics and tell yarns, while the ladies 
talk dress ? ” 

In my house,” said Aunt Jane, “ the ladies do not talk 
dress. We exchange our experiences. It is a Christian 
privilege.” 

Dr. Eoy uttered a hollow groan, doubtless from sympathy 
with Mr. Pontifex. 

Just then Mrs. Tyrrell sat bolt upright, which was her 
signal, and the ladies left us. 

“ Aha ! ” cried Mr. Broughton, confess Brother Pontifex, 
that you do not appreciate all the Christian privileges of 
your house.” 

He shook his head solemnly, but he did not smile. ' 

‘‘ Three bottle men, were you ? ” said Dr. Eoy. “ Gad, 
sir, I remember at old Trinity, in Dublin, some of us were 
six bottle men. Not I, though. Nature intended me for a 
one pint man.” 

“ It is only the German student,” said Herr Eaumer, who 
can hold an indefinite quantity.” 

‘‘ I sincerely hope,” said Mr. Pontifex, as he finished his 
glass, that things have greatly changed since that time. I 
remember that the door was generally locked ; the key was 
frequently thrown out of the window, and the — the — Orgy 
commenced. As I said before, the word was ‘ No Heeltaps.’ 
It is awful to reflect upon. Thank you. Dr. Eoy, I will take 
another glass of Port. There were times, too, when, in the 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


147 


wantonness of youth, we permitted ourselves the most reck- 
less language over our feasts. On one occasion I did so, 
myself. The most reckless language. I positively swore. 
My thoughtless companions, I regret to say, only laughed. 
They actually laughed. The cause of this — this Iniquity 
arose over a Goose. It is a truly Dreadful Event to look 
back upon.” 

‘‘We used at Oriel,” said Mr. Broughton, again interrupt- 
ing the Goose story without compunction, “ to drink about a 
bottle and a half a head ; and we used to talk about Scholar- 
ship, Literature, and Art. And some of the men talked well. 
I wish I could drink a bottle and a half every night now ; 
and I wish I had the Common Boom to drink it in. It is a 
Beautiful Time for me to look back upon.” 

It was as if he tried in everything to be a contrast to his 
brother in Orders. 

“ The rising generation,” said Dr. Roy, “ who work harder, 
ride less, smoke more tobacco, and live faster, will have to 
give up Port and take Claret. After all, it was the favourite 
Irish wine for a couple of hundred years.” 

“ Ugh ! ” from Mr. Broughton. 

“The longer the Englishmen drinks Port,"' said Herr 
Eaumer, “ Port and Beer, the longer he will continue to be 
— what he is.” 

As this was said very smoothly and sweetly, with the rasp 
peculiar to the voice, giving an unpleasant point at the end, 
I concluded at once that the German meant more than was 
immediately apparent. 

“ Thank you, Herr Eaumer,” said Mr. Broughton sharply ; 
“ I hope we shall continue to remain what we are. The 
appreciation of your countrymen is always generous. As for 
Port, I look on that wine as the most perfect of all Heaven's 
gifts to us poor creatures. This is very fine, Tyrrell. From 
Pontifex’s cellar? Brother Pontifex, you don’t ask me to 
dinner half often enough. Forty-seven ? I thought so. Agree- 
able,” — he held the glass up to the candles : we had wax 
candles for the dining-room — “ with little body, but quite 
enough. Rather dry,” he tasted it again. “ How suberb it 


148 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


will be in twenty years, when some of us shall not be alive to 
drink it ! The taste for Port comes to us by Nature — it is not 
acquired like that for Claret and Rhine wines — pass me the 
olives, Roy, my dear fellow. It is born with some of us, and 
is a sacred gift. It brightens youth, adorns manhood, and 
comforts age. May those of us who are blessed by Providence 
with a palate use it aright, and may we never drink a worse 
glass of wine than the present. I remember,” he went on 
sentimentally wagging his head, which was by this time nearly 
purple all over, I remember the very first glass of Port I 
ever tasted. My grandfather, the Bishop of Sheffield, gave 
it to me when I was three years old. ‘ Learn to like it, boy/ 
said his lordship, who had the most cultivated palate in the 
diocese. I did like it from that hour, though, unless my 
memory fails me, the Bishop’s butler had brought up too 
fruity a wine.” 

The more Port Mr. Broughton consumed the more purple 
the jolly fat face and bald head became. But no quantity 
affected his tongue or clouded his brain, so that when we 
joined the ladies he was as perfectly sober, although coloured 
like his favourite wine, as Mrs. Pontifex herself, who was 
making tea. 

Mrs. Tyrrell was asleep when we came upstairs, but roused 
herself to talk with Dr. Roy, who had certainly taken more 
than the pint for which, as he said, Nature intended his 
capacity. 

Celia was playing, and I joined her, and we played a duet. 
When we finished I went to ask for a cup of tea. 

By the table was standing Mr. Pontifex, a cup in his hand, 
and a look of almost ghastly discomposure on his face, while 
his wife was forcing an immense slice of muffin upon his un- 
willing hands. 

Muffin, John Pontifex,” she said. 

‘‘ My dear,” he remonstrated with more firmness than one 
might have expected ; My dear, I — I do not wish for any 
muffin — ahem.” 

It is helped, John Pontifex, said his wife, and 
leaving the unhappy man to eat it, she turned to me, 


A DINNER-PAETY. 


149 


thanked me sweetly for the duet, and gave me a cup of 
tea. 

Mr. Pontifex retreated behind his wife’s chair. As no one 
was looking I stole a plate from the table, and with great 
swiftness transferred the muffin from his plate to mine. He 
looked boundless gratitude, but was afraid to speak, and after 
a due interval returned the empty plate to the table, even 
descending so far in deception as to brush away imaginary 
crumbs from his coat. His wife looked suspiciously at him, 
but the muffin was gone, and it was impossible to identify 
that particular piece with one left in another plate. In the 
course of the evening he seized the opportunity of being near 
me, and stooped to -whisper sorrowfully — 

I do not like muffin, Johnny. I loathe muffin. ' 

The party broke up at eleven, and by a quarter past we 
were all gone. As I put my hat on in the hall I heard the 
voice of Herr Eaumer in Mr. Tyrrell's office. 

‘‘This is the day, Tyrrell. After she was eighteen, re- 
member.” 

“Have pity on me, Eaumer; I cannot do it. Give me 
another year.” 

“ Pity ? Eubbish. Not another week. I am not going 
to kill the girl. Is the man mad ? Is he a fool ? ” 

I hastened away, unwilling to overhear things not intended 
for me, but the words struck a chill to my heart. 

^Vho was “she”? Could it be Celia? “After she was 
eighteen ” — and this Celia’s eighteenth birthday. It was dis- 
quieting, and Mr. Tyrrell asking that white-haired man with 
the perpetual sneer and the rasp in his voice for pity. Little 
as I knew of the world, it was clear to me that there would 
be small chance of pity in that quarter. Herr Eaumer and 
Celia! Why he was sixty years of age, and more ; older 
than Mr. Tyrrell, who was a good deal under fifty. What 
could he want with a girl of nineteen ? It was with a sad 
heart that I got home that night, and I was sorely tempted 
to take counsel of the Captain. But I forbore. I would 
wait and see. 

I met Mr. Pontifex next morning. He was going with a 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


150 


basket to execute a few small commissions at the green- 
grocer s. He acted, indeed, as footman or errand boy, saving 
the house large sums in wages. 

He stopped and shook hands without speaking, as if the 
memory of the muffin was too much for him. Then he looked 
as if he had a thing to say which ought to be said, but which 
he was afraid to say. Finally, he glanced hurriedly up and 
down the street to see if there was any one within earshot. 
As there was no one, he laid two fingers on my shoulder, 
and said in agitated tones, and with more than his usual im- 
pressiveness — 

I am particularly partial to salmon, which is, I suppose, 
the reason why I was allowed none last night. When I 
married, however, I totally — ahem — surrendered — I regret 
to say — my independence. Oh • Johnny, Johnny !” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


AN OLD PROMISE. 


FTER a disquiet and uneasy night, haunted with Cas- 



11. sandra-like visions o\‘ coming trouble, I arose, anxious 
and nervous. Am I going to kill the girl ? Wait till she 
was eighteen ? ” What could these words mean except one 
thing ? To connect Celia, even in thought, with this smooth 
and cynical old German was worse than any union of May 
and December. Innocence and trust : belief in high aims 
and pure motives on the one hand — on the other that perfect 
knowledge of evil which casteth out faith. A maiden whose 
chief charm, next to her beauty, to the adept of sixty, was 
her strange and unwonted ignorance of the world and its 
wickedness. And yet — and yet — we were in this nineteenth 
century, and we were in England, where men do not give 
away or sell their daughters, unless in novels: how could it 
be possible that a man of the world, a successful man, like 
Mr. Tyrrell, should contemplate, even for a moment, the 
sacrifice of his only child on such an altar ? 

As our misfortunes always fall together, I received, the 


AN OLD PEOMISE. 


151 

next morning, on my way home from giving my last lesson, 
a second blow, from an equally unexpected quarter. This 
time it was from Wassielewski. The old man, who had 
been dejected and resigned since the failure of his schemes 
in 1854, was walking along upright, swinging his arms, with 
an elated air. When he saw me he threw up his long arms, 
and waved them like the sails of a windmill. 

It is coming,” he cried. It is coming once more. This 
time it will be no failure. And you shall take your part. 
Only wait a week, Ladislas Pulaski, and you shall know all. 
Silence, until you are admitted into our plans.” 

He shook my hand with a pressure which meant more 
than his words, and left me, with his head thrown back, his 
long white hair streaming in the wind, tossing his arms, and 
gesticulating. 

I had almost forgotten that I was a Pole, and the reminder 
came upon me with a disagreeable shock. It was like being 
told of some responsibility you would willingly let sleep — 
some duty you would devolve upon others. And to take my 
part? Strange transformation of a cripple and a music- 
master into a conspirator and a rebel. 

For a week nothing was said by Mr. Tyrrell, and I was for- 
getting my anxiety on that score when, one afternoon, I went 
as usual to see Celia. There were, as I have said, two entrances, 
that of the front door, which was also the office door, and 
that at the end of the garden, which was used by Celia and 
myself. This afternoon, by some accident of choice, I went 
to the front door. To the right was Mr. Tyrrell’s private 
office ; as I passed I saw that the door was open — that he 
was sitting at his table, his head upon his hand in a dejected 
position, and that beside him, his back to the empty fireplace, 
stood, tall, commanding, as if the place belonged to him, Herr 
Ea timer. 

He saw me, and beckoned me to enter the office. 

‘‘Here is Celia’s private tutor, adviser, and most confi- 
dential friend,” he said, in his mocking tones. “ Here is 
Ladislas Pulaski. Why not confide the task to him? Let 
him speak to Celia first, if you will not.” 


152 


BY CELIACS AKBOUB. 


What task ? 

Mr. Tyrrell raised his face, and looked at me. I think I 
have never seen a more sorrowful face than his at that moment 
— more sorrowful or more humiliated. I had always known 
him bold, confident, self-reliant, of a proud and independent 
bearing. All that was gone, and in a single night. He 
looked crushed. Now, it was as if another spirit possessed 
the well-known features, for they were transformed. What 
had this man done to him — what power over him did he pos- 
sess that could work this great and sorrowful transformation? 

Herr Eauraer had taken off his blue spectacles, and his 
sharp keen eyes were glittering like steel. If the man was 
cynical, he was also resolute. Years of self-indulgence had 
not softened the determination with which he carried out 
a purpose. 

Ladislas Pulaski,” he went on, seeing that Mr. Tyrrell 
did not speak, knows Celia better than you, even — her 
father — or than myself, her future husband.” 

Her what ! ” I cried, as he announced the thing in a 
calm judicial way, like the voice of Fate. 

Her future husband,” he repeated. ‘‘ The words are 
intelligible, are they not? Celia will become my wife. Why 
do you look from Mr. Tyrrell to me in that extraordinary 
manner? Is there, then, something monstrous in the fact?” 

‘‘ Yes,” I replied boldly. “ Celia is eighteen, and you are 
sixty.” 

“I am sixy-two,” he said. I shall live, I dare say, 
another eight or ten years. Celia will make these ten years 
happy. She will then be at liberty to marry anybody else.” 

“ What you hear, Ladislas,” said Mr. Tyrrell, speaking 
with an effort, and shading his eyes as if he did not venture 
to look me in the face ; what you hear from Herr Raumer 
is quite true. Celia does not know yet — we were considering 
when you arrived how to tell her — does not know— yet. Our 
friend here insists upon her being told at once. The fact is, 
my dear Ladislas,” he went on, trying to speak at his ease, 
and as if it were quite an ordinary transaction, “ some years 
since 


AN OLD PROMISE 


^53 

Ten years,” said Herr Eaumer. 

Ten years since, our friend here did me a service of some 
importance.” 

Of some importance only, my dear Tyrrell ? ” 

Of very great importance — of vital importance. Never 
mind of what nature.” 

That does not matter, at present said Herr Eaumer. 

Proceed, my father-in-law.” 

‘‘ As an acknowledgment of that favour — as I then believed 
— yes, Eaumer, it is the truth, and you know it — as I then 
believed, in a sort of joke ” 

‘‘ I never joke,” said the German. 

‘‘ 1 promised that he should marry Celia.” 

“ That promise I have never since alluded to until last 
night,” Herr Eaumer explained. It was a verbal promise, 
but I knew that it would be kept. There were no papers or 
agreements between us ; but they were unnecessary. As 
friends we gave a pledge to each other. ^ My dear Tyrrell,’ 
■I said, ‘ you are much younger than I am ; almost young 
enough to be my son. You have a daughter. If I am still 
in this town when she is eighteen years of age, you must 
let me marry her, if I am then of the same mind.’ My 
friend here laughed, and acceded.” 

But I did not think — I did not understand ” 

‘‘That is beside the mark. It was a promise. Celia was 
a pretty child then, and has grown into a beautiful woman. I 
shall be proud of my wife. Because, Tyrrell ” — his brow con- 
tracted — “ I am quite certain that the promise will be kept.” 

“The promise did not, and could not, amount to more 
than an engagement to use my influence with Celia.” 

“Much more,” said the other. “Very much more. I find 
myself, against my anticipations, still in this quiet town of 
yours. I find the girl grown up. I find myself getting old. 
I say to myself — ‘ That was a lucky service you rendered 
Mr. Tyrrell.’ And it was of a nature which would make 
the most grateful man wish silence to be kept about it. And 
the promise was most providential. Now will my declining 
years be rich in comfort.” 


154 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR 


^^Providential or not,” said Celia’s father, plucking up his 
courage ; if Celia will not accept you, the thing is ended.” 

‘‘Not ended,” said Herr Eaumer softly. “Just beginning.” 

“Then God help us,” burst out the poor man, with a groan. 

“ Certainly,” responded his persecutor. “ By all means, 
for you will want all the help that is to be got. Mr. Pulaski, 
who is entirely ami de famille^ is now in a position to under- 
stand the main facts. There are two contracting parties. 
One breaks his part of the contract — the other, not by way 
of revenge, but in pursuance of a just policy, breaks his. 
The consequences fall on the first man’s head. Now, Tyrrell, 
let us have no more foolish scruples. I will make a better 
husband for your girl than any young fellow. She shall 
have her own way ; she shall do what she likes, and dress 
— and — all the rest of it, just as she chooses. What on 
earth do women want more.” 

I felt sick and dizzy. Poor Celia. 

Herr Eaumer placed his hand upon the bell. 

“ I am going to send for her,” he said. “ If you do not 
speak to her yourself I will do so. As Ladislas Pulaski is 
here to give us moral support” — the man could not speak 
without a sneer — “it will be quite a conseil de famille^ and 
we shall not have to trouble Mrs. Tyrrell at all. You can 
tell her this evening, if necessary.” 

He rang. Augustus Brambler, as the junior clerk, answered 
the bell. I noticed that his eyes looked from one to the other 
of us, as he took the message from the German, in a mild 
wonder. Augustus ran messages of all sorts with equal 
alacrity, provided they were connected with the oflSce. He 
would have blacked boots had he been told to do so, and con- 
sidered it all part of the majesty of the law. 

'When Celia came, Herr Eaumer made her a very profound 
and polite bow, and placed a chair for her. 

She looked at her father, who sat still with his head on 
his hand, and then at me. 

“ What is it, papa ? What is it, Laddy ? ” she asked. 

“ Your father has a communication to make to you of the 
very greatest importance,” said Herr Eaumer softly and 


AN OLD PKOMISE. 


155 


gently. Of so great importance that it concerns the happi- 
ness of two lives.” 

I hardly knew the man. He was soft, he was winning, he 
was even young ^ as he murmured these words with another 
bow of greater profundity than would have become an 
Englishman. 

Then Mr. Tyrrell rose to the occasion. Any man, unless 
he is an abject coward, can rise to the occasion, if necessary, 
and act a part becomingly, if not nobly. You never hear of a 
man having to be carried to the gallows, for instance, though 
the short walk there must have a thousand pangs for every 
footfall. Mr. Tyrrell rose, and tried to smile through the 
black clouds of shame and humiliation. 

Celia, my dear child,” he said, ‘‘ Herr Eaumer to-day 
has asked my consent to his becoming, if you consent, my 
son-in-law.” 

“ Your son-in-law, papa ? ” 

‘‘My son-in-law, Celia,” he replied firmly; the plunge 
on-ce made, the rest of the work appeared easier. “ I am quite 
aware that there are many objections to be advanced at the 
outset. Herr Eaumer, you will permit me, my friend, to 
allude once and for all to ” 

“ To the disparity of age ? ” No wooer of five-and-twenty 
could have been more airily bland, as if the matter were not 
worth mentioning seriously. “ The disparity of age ? Cer- 
tainly. I have the great misfortune to be forty years older 
than Miss Tyrrell. Let us face the fact.” 

“ Quite so. Once stated, it is faced,” said Mr. Tyrrell, 
gaining courage every moment. “ The objection is met by 
the fact that our friend is no weak old man to want a nurse, 
but strong and vigorous, still in the prime of life.” 

“The prime of life,” echoed the suitor, smiling. 

“He is, it may also be objected,” said Mr. Tyrrell, as if 
anxious to get at the worst aspect of the case at once ; “ he 
is a foreigner — a German. What then? If there is a nation 
with which we have a national sympathy, it is the German 
nation. And as regards other things, he has the honour 
of 


156 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


Say of an Englishman, my friend. Say of an English 
lawyer and gentleman.” 

Mr. Tyrrell winced for a moment. 

He is honourable and upright, of an excellent disposi- 
tion, gentle in his instincts, sympathetic and thoughtful for 
others ” 

‘‘ My dear friend,” the Herr interposed, “ is not that too 
much ? Miss Tyrrell will not believe that one man can have 
all those perfections.” 

Celia will find out for herself,” said her father, laughing. 

And now, my child, that you know so much, and that we 
have considered all possible objections, there remains some- 
thing more to be said. It is ten years since this project was 
first talked over between us.” 

Ten years ! ” cried Celia. 

As a project only, because it was impossible to tell where 
we might be after so long a time. It was first spoken of 
between us after an affair, a matter of business, with which 
I will only so far trouble you as to say that it laid me under 
the most lively obligations to Herr Eaumer. Eemember, 
my dear, that the gratitude you owe to this gentleman is 
beyond all that any act of yours can repay. But we do not 
wish you to accept Herr Eaumer from gratitude. I want 
you to feel that you have here a chance of happiness such as 
seldom falls to any girl.” 

In my country. Miss Tyrrell,” said Herr Eaumer gravely, 
it is considered right for the suitor to seek first the appro- 
bation of the parents. I am aware that in England the 
young lady is often addressed before the parents know 
anything of — of — of the attachment. If I have behaved 
after the manner of my people, you will, I doubt not, for- 
give me.” 

I ventured to look at Celia. She sat in the chair which 
Herr Eaumer had given her at the foot of the table, upright 
and motionless. Her cheeks had a touch of angry red in 
them, and her eyes sought her father’s, as if trying to read 
the truth in them. 

You should know, dear Celia,” Mr. Tyrrell went on, not 


AN OLD PROMISE. 


157 


only from my friend’s wish, but also mine, I — I — I think, 
that we can hardly expect an answer yet.” 

Not yet,” he murmured ; Miss Tyrrell will give me an- 
other opportunity, alone, of pleading my own cause. It is 
enough to-day that she knows what her father’s hopes are, 
and what are mine. I would ask only to say a few words, if 
Miss Tyrrell will allow me.” 

He bowed again. 

Ten years ago, when this project — call it the fancy of a 
man for a child as yet unformed — came into my brain, I 
began to watch your progress and your education. I saw 
with pleasure that you were not sent to those schools where 
girls’ minds are easily imbued with worldly ideas.” Good 
heavens ! was Herr Raumer about to put on the garb of 
religion ? “ Later on I saw with greater pleasure that your 

chief companion and principal tutor was Mr. Ladislas Pulaski, 
a gentleman whose birth alone should inspire with noble 
thoughts. Under his care I watched you. Miss Tyrrell, 
growing gradually from infancy into womanhood. I saw 
that your natural genius was developed ; that you were be- 
coming a musician of high order, and that by the sweetness 
of your natural disposition you were possessing yourself of a 
manner which I, who have known courts, must be allowed to 
pronounce perfect. It is not too much to say that I have 
asked a gift which any man, of whatever exalted rank, would 
be proud to have ; that there is no position however lofty 
which ]\Iiss Tyrrell would not grace ; and that I am deeply 
conscious of my own demerits. At the same time I yield to 
no one in the resolution to make that home happy which it 
is in Miss Tyrrell’s power to give me. The slightest wish 
shall be gratified ; the most trifling want shall be anticipated. 
If we may, for once, claim a little superiority over the English, 
it is in that power of divining beforehand, of guessing from a 
look or a gesture, the wishes of those we love^ which belongs 
to us Germans.” 

It was the first and the last time I had ever heard this 
mysterious power spoken of. No doubt, as Herr Raumer 
claimed it for his countrymen, they do possess it. Most 


158 


B7 CELIACS AKBOUB. 


Germans I have ever seen have struck me as being singularly 
cold persons, far behind the French in that subtle sympathy 
which makes a man divine in the manner spoken of by Herr 
Eaumer. 

The speech was lengthy and wordy ; it was delivered in the 
softest voice, and with a certain impressiveness. Somehow — 
so far at least, as I was concerned, it failed to produce a 
favourable effect. There was not the true ring about it. 
Celia made a slight acknowledgment, and looked again at 
her father. 

Then Herr Eaumer turned effusively to me. 

“ I have no words,'’ he said, to express the very great 
thanks which I — which we — owe to you for the watchful and 
brotherly care which you have given to Miss Tyrrell. It is 

not in the power of money ” 

There has never been any question of money,” said Mr, 
Tyrrell quickly, between Ladislas and us.” 

‘‘I know. There are disinterested people in the world, 
after all,” Herr Eaumer said with a smile. You are one of 
them, Mr. Pulaski. At the same time,” he added airily, you 
cannot escape our thanks. You will have to go through life 
laden with our gratitude.” 

Celia got up and gave me her hand. 

You do not want me to say anything now, papa,” she 
said. We will go. Come, Laddy.” 

We closed the door of the office behind us, and escaped 
into the garden, where the apple blossoms were in their pink 
and white beauty ; through the gate at the end, to our own 
resort and rest, by Celia’s Arbour. We leaned against the 
rampart and looked out, over the broad sloping bank of bright 
green turf, set with buttercups as with golden buttons, across 
the sunny expanse of the harbour. The grass of the bastion 
was strewn with the brown casings of the newly-born leaves, 
the scabbards which had kept them from the frost. We 
could not speak. Her hand held mine. 

Presently she whispered. 

‘‘ Laddy, is it real ? Does papa mean it ? ” 

'‘Yes, Celia.” 


FROM THE OROA.N'-LOFT. 


159 

And yesterday I was so happy.” 

Then we were silent again, for I had no word of comfort. 
Laddy,’’ she cried, with a start of hope, what is to-day ? 
The first of June. Then in three weeks’ time Leonard will 
be come again. I will give no answer for three weeks. 
Leonard will help us. All will be right for us when Leonard 
comes home” 


CHAPTER XVIIT. 

FROM THE ORGAN-LOFT. 

I N three weeks. Leonard would be home in three weeks. 

We had been so long looking forward that, now the time 
was close at hand, the realisation of its approach came on ns 
like a shock. 

We stared at each other. 

‘‘ Three weeks, Cis ! How will he come home ? ” 

I do not know. He will come home triumphant. Laddy, 
a moment ago I was so wretched — now I am so hopeful. 
He will come home and help ns. We are like shipwrecked 
sailors in sight of land.” 

We did not doubt but that he would be another Perseus to 
the new Andromeda. What he was to do, more than we could 
do ourselves, we did not know. But he would do something. 
And that conviction, in the three weeks which followed, was 
our only stay and hope. We could not take counsel with 
the Captain, and even Mrs. Tyrrell was not informed of what 
had happened. She was to be told when Celia gave her 
answer. Meantime, Celia’s lover made for the moment no 
sign of impatience. He came to the house in the evenings. 
He listened to Celia’s playing and singing ; he ventured 
with deference on a little criticism ; he treated her with such 
respect as a lady might get from a preux chevalier of the old 
school; he loaded her with petits-soins ; he never alluded in 
the slightest way to their interview in the office; his talk 
was soft, and in the presence of the girl he seldom displayed 
any of the cynical sayings which generally garnished his 
conversation; and he assumed the manner of a Christian 


i6o 


BY CELIA'S AKBOUK. 


gentleman of great philanthropic experience, and some dis- 
appointment with human nature. I was a good deal amused 
by the change, but a little disquieted because it showed that 
he was in earnest. There was to be no brutal force, no 
melodramatic marriage by reluctant consent to save a father 
from something or other indefinite. He was laying siege 
in due form, hoping to make the fortress surrender in due 
time, knowing that the defences were undermined by the 
influence of her father. 

The Sunday after the first breaking of the matter he 
astonished me by appearing in the Tyrrells’ square pew. I 
saw him from the organ-loft, and watched him with the 
utmost admiration. He was certainly a well set-up man, tall 
and straight. His full white moustache gave him a soldier- 
like look. He wore a tightly-buttoned frock, which was 
not the fashion of the day, with a rosebud in the button-hole, 
and new light lavender gloves. The general effect produced 
was exactly what he desired, that of a man no longer young, 
but still in vigorous life ; a man remarkable in appearance, 
and probably remarkable, did the congregation know it, for 
his personal history. In church he laid aside the blue 
spectacles which he always wore in the street. His manner 
was almost theatrically reverential, although he showed a 
little uncertainty about getting up and sitting down. I 
have already explained that this was leisurely among occu- 
pants of the square pews at St. Faith’s, so that his hesitation 
was less marked than it would be in an advanced church of 
the more recent type. I do not know whether he sang, 
because my back was necessarily turned to the congregation 
while I played for them, and among the curious mixture of 
discordances which rose to the organ-loft, and together made 
up the hymn, I could not distinguish the German’s deep bass 
with the unmistakable rasp in it. There was the squawk of 
the old ladies who sat along the aisle — you made that out 
easily by reason of their being always half-a-dozen notes 
behind ; there was the impetuous rush of those irregular 
cavalry, the charity children, who sat round the altar rails, 
and always sang a few notes in advance ; there was the long- 


FROM THE ORGAN-LOFT. 


i6i 


drawn Iiiim of the congregation "'joining in,” which, taken 
in the lump, as one got it up in the organ-loft, was like the 
air played slowly on a barrel organ with a cold, or like a 
multitude attempting a tune through their noses. And 
there were sporadic sounds, issuing, I had reason to suppose, 
from individual singers, from him who tried tenor, and from 
her who attempted an alto. And sometimes I thought I 
could distinguish the sweet voice of Celia, but that was 
probably fancy. 

The hymn over, I was free to turn round, and through an 
uplifted corner of the red curtain to watch Herr Raumer. 
The preacher on this Sunday was the Rev. John Pontifex, 
and it was a pretty sight to see the rapt attention with which 
the Teutonic proselyte followed the argument, as if it was 
something strange, original, and novel. As a matter of fact, 
it was Mr. Pontifex s one sermon. He only had one. Like 
Single-speech Hamilton, he concentrated all the logic at his 
command into one argumentative discourse. Unlike Single- 
speech, he went on preaching it whenever he was asked to 
preach at all. To be sure, he introduced variations in the 
text, in the exordium, and in the peroration. But the body 
of the discourse was invariably the same. And it was not a 
cheerful sermon. On the contrary, it was condemnatory, and 
sent people home to their dinners with a certainty about the 
future which ought to have taken away all their appetites. 

Up in the organ-loft you had advantages over your fellows. 
The church lay at your feet, with the people in their pews 
sitting mute and quiet, and yet each man preserving in his 
attitude, in his eyes, in the pose of his head, his own indi- 
viduality. Mr. Tyrrell, for instance, showed that he was ill 
at ease by his downcast eyes and drooping head. His 
daughter and I alone knew the reason of his disquietude, 
with that stranger who sat in the same pew with him. 
Behind Mr. Tyrrell was the Captain in a long pew. Years 
before he had sat there Sunday after Sunday with two boys. 
Was the old man thinking that in three more Sundays he 
might sit there with the wanderer back again? He enter- 
tained great respect for a sermon, as part of a chaplain's 

L 


i 62 


BY CELIACS AEBOUK. 


duties ashore, but it would have been difficult to discover 
from any subsequent remarks that he ever listened. Looking 
at him now, from my lofty coign of vantage, I see from his 
eyes that his thoughts are far away. I^erhaps he is with 
Leonard, perhaps he is tossing on a stormbeat sea, or slave- 
chasing off the West Coast, or running again into Navarino 
Bay on a certain eventful afternoon. There is a calm about 
the old man’s face which speaks of peace. WLat are the 
denunciations of the Eev. John Pontifex to him ? 

Whither you will all of you — alas ! — most infallibly 

go unless you change your ways ” 

Within the communion rails, the Eev. Mr. Broughton, his 
legs stretched out, his feet upon a footstool, and his hands 
clasped across his portly form, is sitting comfortably. His 
part of the morning exercises is finished. His eyes are closed 
and his head nodding. Happy Perpetual Curate ! On the 
red baize cushions round the rails are twenty or thirty school 
children, recipients of some charity. Why do they dress the 
poor girls in so perfectly awful a uniform ? And why is the 
verger allowed to creep round during the sermon, cane in 
hand, to remind any erring infant that he must not sleep in 
church ? It ought not to be allowed. 

Look at the faces of the congregation* as they are turned 
up vacantly to the roof. No one is listening — except Herr 
Eaumer. What are they all thinking about ? In this hive 
of a thousand people, there is not one but has his heart and 
brain full of his own hopes and fears. What are the terrible 
forebodings of the preacher — No hope for any but the 
Elect. Alas ! They are very few in number. For the rest 

of you, my brethren ” What are these words, which 

ought to generate a maddening despair, to the present 
anxieties and troubles of the people ! The fat and prosperous 
grocer in the square pew is worried about a bill that falls 
due to-morrow ; his daughter is thinking that a dear friend 
has treacherously copied the trimmings of her bonnet; the 
boys are wishing it was over; and so on. Did such words 
as the Eev. John Pontifex is now uttering ever have any 
real meaning? Or did they always lose their force by being 


FHOM THE ORGAN-LOFT. 


1^3 

applied, as we apply them now, to our neighbours? ‘‘ Elect ? 
Well, of course, I am one. Let us hope that all our friends 
are also in the number. But I have my fears.’' We are in 
a Dead Church, with a preacher of Dead Words; the old 
Calvinistic utterances drop upon hearts which have fallen 
away from the dogma and are no longer open to their 
terrors. Such a sermon as the one preached by the Rev. 
John Pontifex on that Sunday morning would be impossible 
now. Then it was only part of the regular Church business. 
Well, that is all changed; we have new dangers and new 
enemies; among them is no longer the old listlessness of 
service. 

‘^Lastly, my brethren ” See, Mr. Broughton wakes 

up; the children nudge each other; the Captain’s eyes come 
back to the present, and he instinctively gathers together the 
“tools,” and puts them back into their box; a twitter of 
expectancy, with a faint preliminary trustle of feminine 
garments, ascends to my perch. 

Remember, that you, too, are included, one and all, in 
the sentence upon Ca — per — na — um.” 

So ; he has finished. Herr Raumer sits back with a long 
breath, as if the argument had convinced him. Mrs. Tyrrell 
shakes her head solemnly. The clerk gives out the final hymn. 

“ Oh ! may our earthly Sabbaths prove 
A foretaste of the joys above.” 

Poor charity children ! They go home to a cold collation 
insufiicient in quantity ; they have been caned for inatten- 
tion ; they have to attend three services like this every 
Sunday. And yet they pray for a continuance of these 
joys. 

Oh ! Ladislas,” cries Mrs. Tyrrell, with a sigh of 
rapture, when I came up with the party after playing 
them out. What a sermon ! What Gospel truth ! What 
force of expression! It is astonishing to me that Uncle 
Pontifex has never been made a bishop. He is coming to 
dinner on Tuesday,” she resumes, with an entirely secular 
change of voice, ‘‘with Aunt Jane. Cojne, too> Ladislas, 


164 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


and talk to aunt. There will be the loveliest pair of 
ducks.” 

Herr Eaumer is walking beside Celia. She is pale, and 
from the manner in which she carries her parasol, I should 
say that she is a little afraid lest her suitor should say some- 
thing. But he does not. He is content to hover round her; 
to be seen with her ; to accustom people to the association 
of himself with Celia Tyrrell. It is easy to divine his pur- 
pose. Suddenly to announce an engagement between an 
elderly man of sixty and a girl of less than twenty would be 
to make a nine days’ wonder. Let them be seen together, 
so that when the right moment shall arrive to make the an- 
nouncement, there shall seem nothing strange about it. 

One thing let me say. I have, least of all men, reason to 
love this German. That will be presently apparent. But 
I wish to be just to him. And I think he loved Celia 
honestly. 

I am, indeed, sure he did. I saw it in the way he followed 
her about with his eyes, in the softened tone of his voice ; 
in the v ay in which he sought me out, and tried to learn 
from me what were her favourite books, her music, her 
tastes, so that he might anticipate them. The jealousy of 
my own affection for Celia sharpened my senses. What I 
saw in him I recognised as my own. I wonder how much 
that strange passion of love might have done to softening 
the man. For as regards the rest of the world he remained 
the same as before, cold, cynical, emotionless, without affec- 
tions or pity. A man turned out by a machine could not 
have been more devoid of human sympathy. For instance, 
he was lodged on Augustus BrambleFs first fioor, and he 
was waited on by the best and prettiest of all Augustus’s 
numerous olive branches, little Forty-four. She was like 
her father, inasmuch as she was unceasingly active, always 
cheerful and brave, always patient and hopeful, always happy 
in herself. Unlike her father, the work she did was good 
work. She kept her lodger in luxuriant comfort, cooked his 
dinner as he loved it, and left him nothing to desire. 

Yet he never spoke a word to her that was not a com- 


FKOM THE ORGAN-LOFT. 


165 

mand, never thanked her, never took the slightest notice of 
her presence. This bright-eyed, pleasant-faced, obliging girl^ 
who did a hundred things for him which were not in the 
bond, was, in fact, no more to him than a mere machine. 
Sometimes, observing this strange disregard of all human 
creatures, it occurred to me that he might have learned it by 
a long continuance in military service. A soldier is a creature 
who carries out orders — among other things. Perhaps the 
soldiers in Herr Raurner’s corps were nothing else. That 
would be a delightful world where all the men were drilled 
soldiers, and military manoeuvres the principal occupation, 
the art of war the only study, and victory the only glory. 
And yet to this we are tending. Whenever I tried to interest 
him in his landlord’s family he would listen patiently and 
change the subject. 

The Brambler people ? ” he asked with no show of in- 
terest. Yes — I have seen them — father who runs mes- 

sages.” Poor Augustus! This all the majesty of the Law? 

Uncle who reports for paper — children who fall down the 
stairs. What have I to do with these canaille ? ” 

I ventured to suggest that they were poor and deserving 
— that, &c. 

Bah I ” he said. “ That is the cant of English charity, 
my young friend. You will tell me next that men are all 
brothers. Do not, I beg, fall into that trap set for the 
benevolent.” 

I will not, with you,” I said. I suppose you think that 
men are all enemies.” 

I said this with my most withering and sarcastic smile. 

I do,” he replied solemnly. All men are enemies. For 
our own advantage, and for no other reason, we do not kill 
each other, but unite in societies and kill our neighbours. 
Come, you want me to pretend benevolent sympathy with the 
people in this house, because the father is a fool and they are 
poor. There are an infinite number of poor people in the 
world. Some of them, even, are starving. Well, it is not 
my fault. Let them starve. It is my business to live, and 
get the most out of life/’ 


i66 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


“ Do all your countrymen think like yon ? ” I asked. 

“ All/’ he replied. In Berlin we are a clear-sighted 
people. We put self-preservation first. That means every- 
thing. I do not say that we have no delusions. Machinery 
called charitable exists ; not to so extensive and ruinous a 
degree as in England : still there is hope for the weakest 
when he goes to the wall that some one will take care of 
him.” 

You would let him die.” 

I do not actively wish him to die. If I saw that his life 
would be of the slightest use to me, I should help him to 
live. Let us talk of more agreeable things. Let us talk of 
Celia. Take a glass of hock. So.” 

He lit another cigar, and lay back in his chair, murmuring 
enjoyable words. 

You told me, a little while ago, that the man you admired 
most in the world, the noblest and the best, I think you said, 
after the Captain, was Mr. Tyrrell. Do you think so now ? ” 

I was silent. 

“ You do not. You cannot. That is a lesson for you, 
Ladislas Pulaski. Remember that there is no man noblest 
and best. Think of yourself at your worst, and then persuade 
yourself that all other men are like that.” 

I said nothing to that, because there was nothing to say. 
It is one way of looking at the world ; the best way, it seems 
to me, to drag yourself down and to keep down everybody 
round you. 

‘‘I said then, but you were too indignant to accept the 
doctrine, that every man had his price. You may guess Mr. 
Tyrrell’s. Every woman has hers. Celias price is — her 
father : I have bought her at that price, which I was for- 
tunately able to command.” 

“ You do not know yet.” 

Yes, I do know. All in good time. I can wait. Now, 
Ladislas Pulaski, I will be frank with you. I intended this 
coup all along, and have prepared the way for it. I admire 
the young lady extremely. Let me, even, say that I love 
her. She is, I am sure, as good and virtuous as she is pretty. 


FROM THE ORGAN-LOFT. 


167 


Of all girls that I have ever seen, I think Celia Tyrrell is 
the best. It is, I know, partly due to your training. She 
is the pearl of your pupils. Her manner is perfect : her face 
is perfect ; her conversation is admirable ; her general culti- 
vation is good.*' 

She is all that you say,” I replied. 

You love her, I believe, like a brother. At least Celia 
says so. When I was your age, if I did not love a young 
lady like a brother I made it a rule always to tell her so at 
the earliest opportunity. That inability to love a girl after 
the brotherly fashion has more than once endangered my 
life. Like a brother, is it not ? ” 

“Like a brother,” I murmured, passing over the covert 
sneer. 

“ Very well, then. It is a weakness on my part, but I 
am willing to make sacrifices for this girl. I will study her 
wishes. She shall be treated with the greatest forbearance 
and patience. I do not expect that she will love me as I 
love her. That would be absurd. But I hope that, in a 
little while, a month or two,” — I breathed freely, because I 
feared he was going to say a day or two, — “ she will receive 
my attention with pleasure, and learn to give me the esteem 
which young wives may feel for elderly husbands. I am 
not going to be ridiculous ; I am not a Blue Beard ; I know 
that women can be coaxed when they cannot be forced — 
jai conU fieurettes — it is not for the first time in life that one 
makes love at sixty.” 

“ After all,” he went on cheerfully, “ Celia ought to be a 
happy girl. I shall die in ten years, I suppose. She will 
be a widow at eight-and-twenty. Just the age to enjoy life. 
J ust the time when a woman wants her full liberty. What 
a thing — to be eight-and-twenty, to bury an old husband, 
and to have his money ! ” 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUB. 


1 68 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. 

I N the days that followed things went on externally as if 
nothing had happened. Celia’s suitor walked with her 
in the town, was seen with her in public places, appeared 
in church morning and evening — the second function must 
have exercised his soul heavily — and said no word. Mr. 
Tyrrell, deceived by this appearance of peace, resumed his 
wonted aspect, and was self-reliant, and sometimes as blus- 
terous as ever. Celia alone seemed to remember the subject. 
For some days she tried to read and talk as usual, but her 
cheek was paler, and her manner distraite. Yet I could say 
nothing. The wound was too fresh, the anxiety was still 
there ; it was one of those blows which, though their worst 
effects may be averted, leave scars behind which cannot be 
eradicated. The scar in Celia’s soul was that for the first 
time in her life a suspicion had been forced upon her that 

her father was not — ^had not been . Let us not put it 

into words. 

To speak of such a suspicion would have been an agony 
too bitter for her, and even too bitter for me. Yet I knew, 
by the manner of the man, by the words of the German, that 
he was, in some way, for some conduct unknown, of which 
he was now ashamed, under this man’s power. I could not 
tell Celia what I knew. How was she to tell me the dreadful 
suspicion that rose like a spectre in the night, unbidden, 
awful? We were only more silent, we sat together without 
speaking ; sometimes I caught her eye resting for a moment 
on her father with a pained wonder, sometimes she would 
break off the music, and say with a sigh that she could play 
no more. 

One afternoon, three or four days after the first opening 
of the business, I found her in the library, a small room on 
the first floor dignified by that title, where Mr. Tyrrell kept 
the few books of general literature he owned, and Celia kept 
all hers. She had gathered on the table all the books which 


THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. 169 

we were so fond of reading together — chiefly the poets — and 
was taking them up one after the other, turning over their 
pages with loving, regretful looks. 

She greeted me with her sweet smile. 

I am thinking, Laddy, what to do with these books if — 
if — I have to say what papa wants me to say.” 

‘‘ Do with them, Cis ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, it would be foolisb to keep things 
which are not very ornamental and would no longer be 
useful.” 

Our poor poets are a good deal knocked about,” I said, 
taking up the volumes in hope of diverting her thoughts; 
“ I always told you that Keats wasn’t made for lying in the 
grass,” and indeed that poor bard showed signs of many dews 
upon his scarlet cloth bound back. 

‘‘He is best for reading on the grass, Laddy. Think of 
the many hours of joy we have had with Hyperion under the 
elms. And now, I suppose, we shall never have any more. 
Life is very short, for some of us.” 

“ Bat — Cis — why no more hours of pleasure and poetry ?” 

“ I do not know when that man may desire an answer. 
And I know that if he claims it at once — to-morrow — next 
day — what answer I am to give. I watch my father, Laddy, 
and I read the answer in his face. Whatever happens, I 
must do what is best for him.” 

“ Put off the answer, Cis, till Leonard comes home.” 

“ If we can,” she sighed — “ if we can. Promise me one 
thing, Laddy — promise me faithfully. If I have — if I must 
consent — never let Leonard know the reason : never let any 
one know ; let all the world think that I have accepted — 
him — because I loved him. As if any woman could ever 
love him ! ” 

Then he had not deceived her with his smooth and 
plausible manner. 

“ I promise you so much at least,” I said. “ Ho one shall 
know, poor Cis, the reason. It shall be a secret between us. 
But you have not said ‘ Yes,’ to him yet ? ” 

“ I may very soon have to say it, Laddy. I shall give you 


170 


BY CELIA'S ARBOtTR. 


all this poetry. We have read it together so much that I 
should always think of you if I ever try and read it alone. 
And it would make me too wretched. I shall have nothing 
more to do with the noble thoughts and divine longings of 
these'great men: they will all be dead in my bosom; I shall 
try to forget that they ever existed. Herr Eaumer — -my 
husband,” she shuddered — “ would not understand them. I 
shall learn to disbelieve everything : I shall find a base 
motive in every action. I shall cease to hope: I shall lose 
my faith and my charity.” 

Celia — my poor Celia — do not talk like that.” 

‘‘Here is Keats.” She opened him at random, turned 
over the leaves, and read aloud — 

“ ‘ Ah ! would ’twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 

But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy 1 ' 

“ Passed joy ! We shall not be able to go out together, 
you and I, Laddy, any more, nor to read under the elms, nor 
to look out over the ramparts up the Harbour at high tide, 
and you will leave off giving me music lessons — and when 
Leonard comes home he will not be my Leonard any more. 
Only let him never know, dear Laddy.” 

“ He shall never know, Cis. But the word is not spoken 
yet, and I think it never will be.” 

She shook her head. 

“There is our Wordsworth. Of course he must be given 
up too. When the whole life is of the earth earthy, what 
room could be there for Wordsworth! Why,” she looked 
among the sonnets, “ this must have been written especially 
for me. Listen : 

* O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 
To think that now our life is only dressed 
For show ..... 

The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone : our peace, our fearful innocence 
i . And pure religion breathing household laws.* 


THE EONTIFEX COLLECTION. 


171 


Fancy the household laws of Herr Eaumer/' she added 
bitterly. 

She was in sad and despairing mood that morning. 

I took the book from her hand — what great things there 
are in Wordsworth, and what rubbish ! — and found another 
passage. 

“ Those first affections. 

Those shadowy recollections, 

Which be they what they may 

Are yet the fountain light of all our days, 

Are yet a masterlight of all our seeing, 

Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 
To perish never : 

Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavour, 

Nor man nor boy, 

Nor all that is at enmity with joy 
Can utterly abolish or destroy.” 

Do you think, you silly Celia, if things come to the very 
worst — if you were — let me say it out for once — if you were 
tied for life to this man, with whom you have no sympathy, 
that you would forget the beautiful things which you have 
read and dreamed ? They can never be forgotten. Why, 
they lie all about your heart, the great thoughts of God and 
heaven, what this beautiful earth might be and what you 
yourself would wish to be ; they are your guardian angels, 
who stand like Ithuriel to ward off evil dreams and basenesses. 
They cannot be driven away because you have placed them 
there, sentinels of your life. If— if he — were ten times as 
cold, ten times as unworthy of you as he seems, he could bub 
touch your inner life. He could only make your outer life 
unhappy. And then, Celia, I think — I think that Leonard 
would kill him.” 

“ If Leonard will care any more about me,” she murmured 
through her tears. But he will not. I shall be degraded 
in his eyes. He will come home with happier recollections 
of brighter scenes and women far better and more beautiful 
than I can be, even in his memory.” 

‘‘ Celia,” I cried hotly, that is unkind of you. You can-. 


172 


BY CELIA'S ARBOUB. 


not mean it. Leonard can never forget you. There will be 
no scenes so happy in his recollection as the scenes of the 
boyhood ; no one whom he will more long to see than little 
Celia — ^little no longer now, and — oh ! Cis — Ois, how beauti- 
ful you are ! 

Laddy, you are the best brother in all the world. But 
do not flatter me. Y"ou know I like to think myself pretty. 
I am so vain.” 

“ I am not flattering you, my dear. Of course, I think you 
are the most beautiful girl in all the world. Ah ! if I could 
only draw you and put all your soul into your eyes as a great 
painter would. If I were Raphael I would make you St. 
Catharine — no, St. Cecilia — sitting at the organ, looking up 
as you do sometimes when we read together, as when I play 
Beethoven, and your soul opens like a flower.” 

Laddy— Laddy.” 

I would make your lips trembling, and your head a little 
bent back, so as to show the sweet outlines, and make all the 
world fall in love with you. . . . Don’t cry, my own dear 
sister. See, Leonard will be home again soon triumphant, 
bringing joy to all of us. Our brave Leonard — and all will 
be well. I know all will go well. And this monstrous thing 
shall not be done.” 

She put her arms round my neck, and laid her cheek 
against mine. Thank God,” she said simply, “ for my 
brother.” 

By this time I had mastered my vain and selfish passion. 
Celia was my sister, and could never be anything else. As 
if in the time when companionship is as necessary as light 
and air, it was not a great thing to have such a companion 
as Celia ! In youth we cling to one another, and find en- 
couragement in confession and confidence. David was young 
when he loved Jonathan. It is when we grow older that 
we shrink into ourselves and forget the sweet old friend- 
ships. 

This little talk finished, Celia became more cheerful, and 
we presently stole out at the garden gate for fear of being 
intercepted by the suitor, who was as ubiquitous as a Prussian 


THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. 


173 


Uhlan, and went for a ramble along the beach, where a light 
breeze was crisping the water into tiny ruffles of wavelets, 
and driving about the white-sailed yachts like butterflies. 
The fresh sea air brightened her cheek, and gave elasticity 
to her limbs. She forgot her anxieties, laughed, sang little 
snatches, and was as merry as a child again. 

Let us go and call at Aunt Jane’s,” she cried, when we 
left the beach, and were striking across the furze-covered 
common. 

To call upon Mrs. Pontifex was never an inspiriting thing 
to do. She had a way of picking out texts to suit your case 
and hurling them at your head, which sent you away far 
more despondent about the future than her husband’s sermons. 
There is always this difference between a woman of Aunt 
Jane’s persuasion and a man of the same school ; that the 
woman really believes it all, and the man has by birth, by 
accident, by mental twist, for reasons of self-interest, talked 
himself into a creed which he does not hold at heart, so far 
as he has power of self-examination. Mr. Pontifex had lost 
that power, I believe. 

They lived in a villa overlooking the common. Mrs. 
Pontifex liked the situation principally because it enabled 
her to watch the Sabbath-breakers,” viz., the people who 
walked on Sunday afternoon, and the unthinking sinners, who 
strolled arm in arm upon the breezy common on summer 
evenings. The villa had formerly possessed a certain beauty 
of its own, being covered over with creepers, but Mrs. Pontifex 
removed them all, and it now stood in naked ugliness, square 
and flat-roofed. There was a garden in front, of rigid and 
austere appearance, planted with the less showy shrubs, and 
never allowed to put on the holiday garb of summer flowers. 
Within, the house was like a place of tombs, so cold, so full 
of monumental mahogany, so bristling with chairs of little 
ease. 

To our great joy, Mrs. Pontifex was out. Her husband, 
the servant, said, with a little hesitation, was at home. 

Then we will go in,” said Celia. Where is he, 
Anne ? ” 


174 


By CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


“Well, Miss,” sli6 said in apology, “at present master’s 
in the front kitchen.” 

In fact, there we found the unhappy Mr. Pontifex. He 
was standing at the table, with a most gloomy expression on 
his severe features. Before him stood a half-cut, cold-boiled 
leg of mutton. He had a knife in one hand and a piece of 
bread in another. 

“ This is all,” he said sorrowfully, “ that I shall get to-day. 
Mrs. Pontifex said that there was to be no dinner. She has 

gone to a Dorcas meeting No, thank you, Anne, I cannot 

eat any more — ahem — any more boiled mutton. The human 
palate — alas! that we poor mortals should think of such 
things — does not accept boiled mutton with pleasure. But 
what is man that he should turn away from his food ? A 
single glass of beer, if you please, Anne.” 

“ Do have another slice of mutton, sir,” said the servant, in 
sympathising tones. 

“ No, Anne ” — there was an infinite sadness in his voice. 
“No, I thank you.” 

“ There’s some cold roly-poley in the cupboard, sir. Try a 
bit of that.” 

She brought it out. It was a piece of the inner portion, 
that part which contains most jam. 

Mr. Pontifex shook his head in deep despondency. 

“That is not for ME, Anne,” he said; “I always have to 
eat the ends.” 

“ Then why do you stand it?” I said. “ You are a man, 
and ought to be master in your own house.” 

“ You think so, Johnny ? ” he replied. “ You are young. 
You are not again like St. Peter — ahem — a mamed man. 
Let us go upstairs.” 

He led us into his study, which was a large room decorated 
with an immense quantity of pictures. The house, indeed, 
was full of pictures, newly arrived, the collection of a brother, 
lately deceased, of the Eev. John Pontifex. I am not learned 
in paintings, but I am pretty sure that the collection on the 
walls were copies as flagrant as anything ever put up at 
Christy’s. But Mr. Pontifex thought diSerently. 


THE PONTIFEX COLLEGTIOH. 


175 


You have not yet seen my picture gallery, Johnny ,” he 
said. The collection was once the property of my brother, 
the Rev. Joseph Pontifex, now, alas! — in the bosom of 
Abraham. He was formerly my coadjutor when I was in 
sole charge at Dillrnington. It was commonly said by the 
Puseyites, at the time, that there was a Thief in the Pulpit 
and a Liar in the Reading-desk. So great — ahem ! — was our 
pulpit power that it drew forth these fearful denunciations. 
1 rejoice to say that I was the — ahem I — the — Liar.” 

It was hard to see where the rejoicing ought properly to 
come in. But no doubt he knew. 

“They are beautiful pictures, some of them,” said Celia 
kindly. 

Mr. Pontifex took a walking stick, and began to go round 
like a long-necked, very solemn showman at a circus. 

“ These are ‘Nymphs about — ahem — to Bathe.’ A master- 
piece by Caracci. The laughter of those young persons has 
probably long since been turned into mourning. 

“ ‘ The Death of St. Chrysostom,’ supposed to be by Leo- 
nardo da Vinci. The Puseyites go to Chrysostom as to a father. 
Well; they may go to the muddy streams if they please. I 
go to the pure — the pure fountain, Johnny. 

“ ‘ Pope Leo the Tenth,’ by one Dosso Dossi, of whom, I 
confess, I have never heard. I suppose that there are more 
Popes than any other class of persons now in misery.” 

He shook his head, as he said this, with a smile of peculiar 
satisfaction, and went on to the next picture. 

“A soldier, by Wouvermans, on a white horse. Probably 
the original of this portrait was in his day an extremely 
profligate person. But he has long since gone to his long — 
no doubt his very long account. 

“ That is ‘ The Daughter of Herodias Dancing.’ I have 
always considered dancing a most immoral pastime, and in 
the days of my youth found it so, I regret to say. 

“ ‘ The Mission of Xavier.’ He was, alas I a Papist, and 
is now, I believe, what they are pleased to call a saint. In 
other respects he was, perhaps, a good man, as goodness 
shows to the world. That is, a poor gilded exterior, hiding. 


176 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUK. 


corruption. How different from our good Bishop Heber, the 
author of that sweet miss — i — o — na — ry poem which we all 
know by heart, and can never forget. 

** * From Greenland’s icy mountains — 

From Greenland’s icy mountains— 

From Greenland’s — ahem ! — icy — * 

— but my memory fails me. That is, perhaps, the result of 
an imperfect meal.” 

Sit down, my dear uncle,” said Celia. You must be 
fatigued. What was Aunt Jane thinking of to have no 
dinner ? ” 

‘‘ Your great-aunt, Celia,” said Mr. Pontifex, with a very 
long sigh, “ is a woman of very remarkable Christian graces 
and virtues. She excels in what I may call the — the — ahem 
— the very rare art of compelling others to go along with her. 
To-day we fast, and to-morrow we may be called upon to sub- 
due the natural man in some other, perhaps — at least I hope 
— in a less trying method.” 

We both laughed, but Mr. Pontifex shook his head. 

“ Let me point out one or two more pictures of my collec- 
tion,” he said. There are nearly one thousand altogether, 
collected by my brother Joseph, who resided in Rome, the 
very heart of the Papacy — you never knew Joseph, Celia 
— during the last ten years of his life. That landscape, the 
trees of which, I confess, appear to me unlike any trees with 
which I am personally acquainted — is by Salvator Rosa; 
that Madonna and Child — whom the Papists ignorantly 
worship — is by Sasso Ferrato; that group” (it was a sprawl- 
ing mass of intertwisted limbs) is by Michael Angelo, the 
celebrated master; the waterfall which you are admiring, 
Celia, is a Ruysdael, and supposed to be priceless ; the pig — ■ 
alas ! that men should waste their talents in delineating 
such animals — is by Teniers ; the cow by Berghem ; that 
— ahem — that infamous female ” (it was a wood nymph, and 
a bad copy) is a Rubens. The Latin raheo or rulesco is — 
unless my memory again fails me — to blush. Rightly is that 
painter so named. No doubt he has long since — but I refrain.’’ 


THE EIGHT OF EEVOLT. 


177 


Do you think, Celia,'’ I asked on the way home, that 
Mr. Pontifex dwells with pleasure in the imagination of the 
things which are always on his lips ? ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RIGHT OF REVOLT. 

T he Polish Barrack in 1858 had ceased to exist. There 
were, in fact, very few Poles left in the town to occupy 
it. A good many were dead. Some went away in 1854 to 
join the Turks. Some, grown tired of the quasi garrison 
life, left it, and entered into civil occupations in the town. 
Some, but very few, drifted back to Poland and made their 
peace with the authorities. Some emigrated. Of all the 
bearded men I knew as a boy scarcely twenty were left, and 
these were scattered about the town, still in the enjoyment’’ 
of .the tenpence a day granted them by the British Govern- 
ment. I seldom met any of them except Wassielewski, who 
never wearied of his paternal care. The old man still 
pursued his calling — that of a fiddler to the sailors. The 
times, however, were changed. Navy agents were things 
of the past — a subject of waiting among the Tribes. Sailors’ 
Homes were established ; the oiled curls had given way to 
another and a manlier fashion of short hair. The British 
sailor was in course of transformation. He no longer made 
it a rule to spend all his money as fast as he received it ; he 
was sometimes a teetotaler; he was sometimes religious, 
with views of his own about Election ; he sometimes read ; 
and though he generally drank when drink was in the way, 
he was not often picked up blind drunk in the gutter. The 
Captain said he supposed men could fight as well if they 
were always sober as if they were sometimes drunk ; and 
that, always provided there were no sea-lawyers aboard, he 
saw no reason why a British crew should not be all good- 
character men, though in his day good character often went 
with malingering. The trade of fiddling, however, was still 

M 


178 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR. 


remunerative, and Wassielewski — Fiddler Ben, as the sailors 
called him — the steadiest and liveliest fiddler of all, had a 
large clienUle. 

At this j uncture the staunch old rebel, as I have explained, 
was in spirits, because he had wind of a new movement. 
The Poles were to make another effort — he was really five 
years too early, because the rebellion did not begin till 1S63, 
but that was not his fault ; it would be once more the duty 
of every patriot to rally round the insurrection and strike 
another blow for Fatherland. Not that he looked for success. 
No one knew better than this hero of a hundred village 
fights that the game was hopeless. His policy was one of 
simple devotion. In every generation an insurrection — 
perhaps half a dozen — was to be got up. Every Pole who 
was killed fertilised the soil with new memories of cruelty 
and blood. It was the duty, therefore, of every Pole to get 
killed if necessary. No Red Irreconcilable ever preached a 
policy so sanguinary and thorough. Out of the accumulated 
histories of rebellion was to arise, not in his time, indignation 
so universal that the whole world would with irrepressible 
impulse rush to rescue Poland from the triple grasp of the 
Eagles. To bring about this end, but one thing was needed 
— absolute self-sacrifice. 

I knew when he met me, the day after Celia’s birthday, 
and told me that the time was coming, what he meant. I, 
like himself, was to be a victim to the Holy Cause. I was a 
hunchback, a man of peace, even a Protestant. That did 
not matter. I bore an historic name, and I was to give the 
cause the weight of my name as well as the slender support 
of my person. And, as I have no desire to pose as a hero, I 
may at once confess that I felt at first little enthusiasm for 
the work, and regarded my possible future with feelings of 
unworthy reluctance. 

I suppose that Wassielewski saw this, because he tried to 
inflame my passion with stories of Russian wrong. 

As yet I knew, as I have said, little or nothing about my 
parentage or the story of my birth. That I should be proud 
because I was a Pulaski; that I should be brave because I 


THE RIGHT OF REVOLT. 


179 

was a Pulaski ; that I owed myself to Poland because I was 
a Pulaski — was all I had learned. 

I suppose, unless the old patriot lied — and I do not think 
he did — that no more revolting story of cruel repression 
exists than that of the Russian treatment of Poland between 
the years 1830 and 1835. Wassielewski, with calm face and 
eyes of fire, used to pour out these horrors to me till my brain 
reeled. He knew them all ; it was his business to know 
them, and never to forget them or let others forget them. 
If he met a Pole he would fall to reviving the old memories 
of Polish atrocities — if he met a friend of Poland ’’ he would 
dilate upon them as if he loved to talk of them. 

History is full of the crimes of nations, but there is no 
crime so great, no wickedness in all the long annals of the 
world, worse than the story of Russia after that revolution 
of hapless Poland. We are taught to believe that the wicked- 
ness of a single man, in some way, recoils upon his own head, 
that sooner or later he is punished — raw antecedentem scelestum 
— but what about the wickedness of a country ? Will their 
fall no retribution upon Russia, upon Prussia, upon Austria ? 
Have the wheels of justice stopped? Or, in some way in 
which we cannot divine, will the sins of the fathers be visited 
upon the children for the third and fourth generation? We 
know not. We see the ungodly flourish like a green bay 
tree, his eyes swelling out with fatness, and there is no sign 
or any foreshadowing of the judgment that is to fall upon 
him. We do not want judgment and revenge. We want 
only such restitution as is possible ; for nothing can give us 
back the men who have died, the women who have sorrowed, 
the children who have been carried away. But let us have 
back our country, our liberty, and our lands. 

A dream — an idle dream. Poland is no more. The 
Poles are become Austrians, Prussians, and, above all, 
Muscovites. 

Wassielewski, a very Accusing Spirit, set himself to fill 
my mind with stories of tyranny and oppression. The 
national schools suppressed, a foreign religion imposed, the 
constitution violated, rebels shot — all these things one 


i8o 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


expects in the history of conquest. What, however, makes 
the story of Russian barbarism in Poland unique in the 
History of Tyranny seems the personal part taken by the 
Czar and the members of his illustrious family. It was the 
Czar who ordered, in 1824, twenty-five thousand Poles to be 
carried to the territory of the Tchernemovski Cossacks. The 
order was issued, with the usual humanity of St. Petersburg, 
in the dead of winter, so that the most of them perished on 
the way. It was the Czar who, in 1830, on the occasion of 
a local outbreak in Sebastopol, ordered with his own hand 
that the only six prisoners — who had been arrested almost 
at random — should be shot : that thirty-six more were to be 
apprehended and knouted : that all the inhabitants without 
distinction should be expelled the town and sent to the 
villages of the Crimea : and that the place should be razed 
to the ground. Every clause except the last was exactly 
carried into effect. It was the Czar who ordered the library 
of Warsaw to be transported to St. Petersburg. It was the 
Czar who formed the humane project of brutalising the Polish 
peasantry by encouraging the sale of spirits by the Jews. It 
was the Czar who transported thousands of Polish nobles 
and soldiers to Siberia. And it was the Czar’s brother, the 
Grand Duke Constantine, whose brutality precipitated the 
rebellion of 1832. 

There were two things which Wassielewski as yet hid from 
me, because they concerned myself too nearly, and because 
I think he feared the effect they might have upon me. That, 
so far, was kind of him. It would have been kinder still had 
he never told them at all. Even now, nearly twenty years 
since I learned them, I cannot think of them without a 
passionate beating of the heart ; I cannot meet a Russian 
without instinctive and unconquerable hatred : I cannot 
name Czar Nicholas without mental execration : and not I 
only, but every Pole by blood, scattered as we are up and 
down the face of the world, hopeless of recovering our national 
liberty, content to become peaceful citizens of France, England, 
or the States, cannot but look on any disaster that befalls 
Russia as a welcome instalment of that righteous retribution 


THE EIGHT OF EEVOLT. 


i8i 


whicli will some day, we believe, overtake the country for the 
sins of the Eomanoffs. 

In those days, however, I had not yet learned the whole. 
I knew enough, in a general way, to fill my soul with hatred 
against the Kussian name and sympathy with my own people. 
I had, as yet, received no direct intimation from the old con- 
spirator that he expected me, too, to throw in my lot with 
him. But I knew it was coming. 

I was certainly more English than Polish. I could not 
speak my father’s language. I belonged to the English 
Church, I was educated in the manners of thought common 
to Englishmen, insular, perhaps, and narrow ; when the 
greatness of England was spoken of, I took that greatness 
to myself, and was glad. England’s victories were mine, 
England’s cause my own, and it was like the loss of half 
my identity to be reminded that I was not a Briton at all, 
but a Pole, the son of a long line of Poles, with a duty owed 
to my country. Like most men, when the path of duty seems 
confused, I was content to wait, to think as much as possible 
of other things, to put it off, always with the possible future 
unpleasantly visible, a crowd of peasants armed with scythes 
and rusty firelocks — I among them — a column of grey coats 
sweeping us down, old Wassielewski lying dead upon the 
ground, a solitary prisoner, myself, kneeling with bandaged 
eyes before an open grave with a dozen guns, at twenty 
paces, pointing straight at my heart. Nor did I yet feel such 
devotion to Poland as was sufficient to make the prospect 
attractive. Also I felt, with some shame, that I could not 
attain to the exasperation at which Wassielewski habitually 
kept his nerves. 

I hear,” said Herr Raumer one evening, “ I hear that your 
friends in Poland are contemplating another insurrection.” 

“ How do you learn that ? ” I asked. 

‘‘I happened to hear something about it from a foreign 
correspondent,” he replied carelessly. ‘‘The Russians, who 
are not fools, generally know what is going on. Up to a 
certain point things are allowed to go on. That amuses people. 
It is only by bad management that conspiracies ever get 


i 82 


BY CELIA’S AHBOUR. 


beyond that point. The Grand Duke Constantine in ’31 
made enormous mistakes. Well, I had a letter from Berlin 
to-day, and heard something about it. Here we are at the 
respectable Bramblers’. Come upstairs and talk for half-an- 
hour.” 

Besides,’’ after he had lit a cigar, got out his bottle of 
Hock, and was seated in his wooden arm-chair — “ Besides, 
one gets foreign papers, and reads between the lines if one is 
wise. There is a bundle of Cracow papers on the table. 
Would you like to read them ? ” 

I was ashamed to confess that I could not read my native 
tongue. 

‘‘ That is a pity. One multiplies oneself by learning lan- 
guages.” 

“ Music has only one language. But how many do you 
know ? ” 

“ A few. Only the European languages. German, Russian, 
French, English. I believe I speak them all equally well. 
Polish is almost Russian. He who speaks German easily 
learns Danish, Swedish, and Dutch. Turkish, I confess, I am 
only imperfectly acquainted with. It is a difficult lan- 
guage.” 

‘‘ But how did you learn all these languages ? ” 

He smiled superior. 

‘‘ To begin with,” he said, ^Hhe Eastern Europeans — you 
are not yourself a stupid Englishman — have a genius for 
language. There we do not waste our time in playfields, as 
these English boys do. So we learn — that is nothing — to 
talk languages. It is so common that it does not by itself 
advance a man. It is like reading, a part of education. 
Among other things you see it is useful in enabling me to 
read papers in Polish, and to get an inkling how things look 
in that land of patriots. But you do not want papers, 
you have your friends here. Of course they keep you 
informed ? ” 

‘‘ I have one or two friends among the few Poles that are 
left. Wassielewski, my father’s devoted servant, is one of 
them.” 


THE RIGHT OF REVOLT. 


83 


Your father’s devoted servant ! Eeally ! Devoted? That 
is touching. I like the devotion of that servant who leaves 
his master to die, and escapes to enjoy an English pension. 
One rates that kind of fidelity at a very high value.” 

The man was nothing unless he could sneer. In that 
respect he was the incarnation of the age, whose chief 
characteristic is Heine’s universal sneer.” No virtue, no 
patriotism, no disinterested ambition, no self-denial, no toil 
for others, nothing but self. A creed which threatens to 
grow, because it is so simple that every one can understand 
it. And as the largest trees often grow out of the smallest 
seeds, one cannot guess what may be the end of it. 

‘‘ You are right, however,” he went on, nursing his crossed 
leg. ‘‘ At your age, and with your imperfect education, it is 
natural that you should be generous. It is pleasant in youth 
to think that a man can ever be influenced by other than 
personal considerations. I never did think so. But then my 
school and yours are different.” 

■ Then what was the patriotism of the Poles ? ” 

‘‘Vanity and self-interest, Ladislas Pulaski. Desire to 
show off — desire to get something better. Look at the Irish, 
Look at the Chartists. Who led them ? Demagogues fight- 
ing for a Cause, because the Cause gives them money and 
notoriety.” 

“ And no self-denial at all ? ” 

“ Plenty. For the satisfaction of vanity. Vanity is the 
chief motive and power in life. All men are vain ; all men 
are ambitious; but most men in time of danger — and this 
saves us — are cowards. I am sixty-two years of age. I have 

seen ” here he hesitated a moment — “I have seen many 

revolutions and insurrections, especially in 1848. What is 
my experience? This. In every conspiracy, where there 
are three men, one of them is a traitor and a spy. Eemember 
that, should your friends try to drag you into a hopeless busi- 
ness. You will have a spy in your midst. The Secret 
Service knows all that is done. The other two men are 
heroes, if you please. That is, they pose. Put them up to 
open trial, and they speechify ; turn them off to be shot, and 


BY CELIACS AKBOUR. 


184 

they fold their arms in an heroic attitude. I believe,” he 
added, with a kind of bitterness, that they actually enjoy 
being shot ! ” 

You have really seen patriots shot ? ” 

^‘ Hundreds,” he replied, with a careless wave of his hand. 

The sight lost its interest to me, so much alike were the 
details of each.” 

Where was it ? ” 

“ In Paris,” he replied. Of course the papers said as 

little as could be said about the shootings. I am sure, in 
fact, now I come to remember, that they did enjoy being 
shot. The Emperor Nicholas, whose genius lay in suppress- 
ing insurrections, knew a much better plan. He had his 
rebels beaten to death ; at least after a thousand strokes 
there was not much life left. Now, not even the most sturdy 
patriot likes to be beaten to death. You cannot pose or 
make fine speeches while you are walking down a double 
file of soldiers each with a stick in his hand. 

The man s expression was perfectly callous : he talked 
lightly and without the slightest indication of a feeling that 
the punishment was diabolical. 

Except the theatrical heroes, therefore, the gentlemen 
who pose, and would almost as soon be shot as not, provided 
it is done publicly, every man has his price. You have only 
to find it out.” 

‘‘ I would as soon believe,” I cried, what you said last 
week — that every woman has her price, too.” 

“ Of course she has,” he replied. Woman is only imper- 
fect man. Bribe her with dress and jewels ; give her what 
she most wants — Love — Jealousy — Revenge — most likely she 
is guided by one of those feelings, and to gratify that one she 
will be traitor, spy, informer, anything.” 

I suppose I looked what I felt, because he laughed, spoke 
in softer voice, and touched my arm gently. 

Why do I tell you these things, Ladislas Pulaski ? It is 
to keep you out of conspiracies, and because you will never 
find them out for yourself. You have to do with the jeiines 
eUves^ the ingenues, the nalves^ the innocent. You sit among 


THE WOELD AND THE WOED. 185 

them like a cherubin in a seraglio of uncorrupted houris. 
Happy boy ! 

Keep that kind of happiness,” he went on. Do not be 
persuaded by any Polish exile — your father s servant or any- 
body else — to give up Arcadia for Civil War and Treachery. 
I spoke to you from my own experience. Believe me, it is 
wide. If I had any illusions left, the year of Forty-eight was 
enough to dispel them all. One remembers the crowd of 
crack-brained theatrical heroes, eager to pose ; the students 
mad to make a new world ; the stupid rustics who thought 
the day of no work, double pay, and treble rations was actually 
come. One thinks of these creatures massacred like sheep, 
and one gets angry at being asked to admire the leaders who 
preached the crusade of rebellion.” 

You speak only of spies, informers, and demagogues. 
How about those who fought from conviction ? ” 

‘‘ I know nothing about them,” he replied, looking me 
straight in the face. ‘‘ My knowledge of rebels is chiefly 
derived from the informers ? ” 

It was a strange thing to say, but I came to understand it 
later on. 

He threw his cigar- ash into the fireplace, and poured out a 
glass of pale yellow wine which he so much loved. 

Never mind my experience,” he said, rising and standing 
over me, looking gigantic with his six feet two compared 
with my bent and shrunken form, crouched beneath him in a 
chair. I am going to rest and be happy. I shall do no 
more work in the world. Henceforth I devote myself to 
Celia. Here is the health of my bride. Hoch ! ” 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE WORLD AND THE V/ORD. 

^OME to US, Cis, for a day or two,” I said. ‘‘It will be 
a little change if it only keeps you out of the way of 
your persecutor.” 

It was a custom of old standing for Celia to spend a day or 


i86 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


two with the Captain — it did ns good in brightening np the 
dingy old house. When Celia was coming we put flowers on 
the mantel-shelf, the Captain went round rigging up the 
curtains with brighter ribbons, and he called it hoisting the 
bunting. The usual severity of our daily fare was departed 
from, and the Captain brought out, with his oldest flask, his 
oldest stories. 

He follows me about,” she replied. I can go nowhere 
without meeting him. If I go into a shop he is at the door 
when I come out — it is as if I was already his property.” 

But he says nothing — he shows no impatience.” 

On Sunday evening I spoke to him. I asked him to give 
up his pursuit — I appealed to his honour — to his pity.” 

He has no pity, Cis.” 

To his very love for me, if he really loves me. I told 
him that it was impossible for me to give my consent. I 
burst into tears — what a shame to cry before him ! — and he 
only laughed and called me his little April girl. ‘ Laugh, 
my little April girl, it rejoices me to see the cloud followed 
by the sunshine.’ Then he asked me to tell him what I 
wanted him to do and he would do it. ‘ To tell my father 
that you have given up your project — to go away and leave 
me.’ He said that he would do anything but give up the 
project ; that his hope was more firmly grounded than ever, 
and that time would overcome my last objections to making 
him happy. What kind of love can that be which looks only 
to a way of making oneself happy ? ’ 

That had been my kind of love not very long before. 

“ I cannot speak to my father, but I see that he is changed. 
Not in his kindness to me, not that — but he is irritable : he 
drinks more wine than he should, and he is all the evening 
in his office now — and sometimes I see his eyes following me 
— poor papa ! ” 

‘‘ What is the meaning of it, Laddy ? People do not 
usually promise their daughters to old men when they are 
eight years of age. Yet this is what he says papa did. Why 
did he doit? Do you think he lent papa money? You 
know we were not always so well oflT as we are now.” 


THE WORLD AND THE WORD. 


187 


I dare say money has something to do with it,” I replied. 
“ It seems to me that money has to do with everything that 
is disagreeable.” 

‘‘ It has,” she said. “ Why cannot people do without 
money altogether? But, if that is all. Aunt Jane and my 
Uncle Pontifex have plenty of money, and they would help 
me, I am sure.” 

‘‘We cannot go to them for help yet. Patience, Cis — 
patience for a fortnight ; we will tell Leonard when he comes 
home, and perhaps the Captain too.” 

“ Patience,” she echoed. “ One tries to be patient, but it 
is hard. It is not only that I could never love Herr Raumer, 
Laddy, but the very thought of passing my life with him 
makes me shake and tremble. I am afraid of him, his manner 
is smooth but his voice is not, and his eyes are too bright 
and keen. I have seen him when he did not think it neces- 
sary to keep up that appearance of gentleness. I know that 
he despises women, because I once heard him make a cruel 
little sneer about us. And he pretends — he pretends to be 
religious, to please mamma. What sort of a life should I 
have with him ? What an end, then, would there be to our 
talks and hopes ! ” 

I murmured something weak about the higher life being 
possible under all conditions, but I did not believe it. Life 
with Herr Raumer — the man who believed religion to be 
the invention of the priests — that this life was the beginning 
and the end ; that there was nothing to be looked for from 
man and womankind, but from love of self, no honour, no 
virtue. What could the future of a girl exposed to daily and 
hourly influences of such a man be like ? 

Love of self? Would it be, then, for love of self that 
Celia would accept him ? 

I suppose for strong natures life might be made to yield 
the fruits of the most sublime Christianity anywhere, even in 
a convict hulk ; but most of us require more fitting condi- 
tions. It is happy to think that no man is tried beyond his 
strength to bear, although in these latter days we have gone 
back to the old plan of making new hindrances to the main- 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR 


1 88 

tenance of the higher spiritual levels, and calling them helps. 
There are plenty of daily crosses in our way, which call for 
all our strength, without adding the new and barbaric in- 
conveniencies of hunger and small privations. Fasting, as a 
Eitualist the other day confessed to me, only makes people 
cross. I should have pitied any girl, even the most common- 
place of good English girls, whom Fate might single out to 
marry this cynical pessimist ; how much more when the girl 
was one whose standard was so high and heart so pure ! 
Should the clear current of a mountain stream be mingled 
with the turbid water of a river in which no fish can live, 
foul from contact with many a factory by which it has wound 
its way, and from which it brought nothing but the refuse 
and the scum ? Are there not some men — I am sure Herr 
Eaumer was one — who, as they journey through the world, 
gather up all its wickedness, out of which they construct 
their own philosophy of existence ? And this philosophy it 
was which he proposed to teach Celia. 

I shall instruct that sweet and unformed mind,” he said 
to me one evening in his lordly way, as if all was quite certain 
to come off that he proposed, in the realities of the world. 
She is at present like a garden full of pretty delicate flowers 
— your planting, my young friend ; they shall be all pulled 
up, and we shall have instead — well — those flowers which go 
to make a woman of the world.” 

‘‘ I do not want to see Celia made into a woman of the world.” 

‘‘You will not be her husband, Ladislas Pulaski. You 
only love her like a brother, you know. Ha ! ha ! And that 
is very lucky for me. And you do not know what a woman 
of the world is.” 

‘‘ Tell me what she is.” 

“ I shall not go on living here. I shall live in London, 
Paris, Vienna, somewhere. My wife shall be a woman who 
will know from my teaching how to deal with men, and how 
to find out women. As for the men, she shall play with them 
like a cat with a mouse. She shall coax their little secrets 
out of them, especially if they are diplomats ; she shall make 
them tell her what she pleases.” 


THE WOELD AND THE WOED. 


189 

Why should they not tell her what she pleases ? What 
secrets would Celia wish to hear ? ” 

“ Jeune 'premier — Cheruhin — you know nothing. They 
will be political secrets, and my wife will learn them for me. 
It is only France and Russia which really understand the 
noble game of feminine intrigue. I shall take my bride away, 
train her carefully, and with her take my proper place.” 

Always in the Grand Style ; always this talk about diplo- 
macy, secret service and intrigue, and sometimes betraying, 
or perhaps ostentatiously showing, a curiously intimate ac- 
quaintance with Courts and Sovereigns. What, I wondered, 
was the previous history of this strange man ? 

Celia has everything to learn, and a good deal to unlearn,” 
he went on thoughtfully. I do not blame you in any par- 
ticular, Ladisfas. You have done your best. But she has to 
forget the old-fashioned provincial — or insular — axioms.” 

God forbid.” 

He laughed. 

You forget that you are not an Englishman, but a Slav. 
They are very pretty — these insular notions — that people 
marry for love — that people must always answer truthfully, 
whatever comes of it — that if you want to get a thing you 
have only to march straight forward — that you must let your 
friends know all you intend to do — that men care for anything 

but themselves — that ” 

He stopped for want of breath. 

Pray go on,” I said ; let us have the whole string of 
virtues dismissed as insular.” 

“Marriage for love! Was there ever greater nonsense? 
The best union that the history of the world speaks of was 
that of the Sabine maidens carried off by the Romans — 
carried off by perfect strangers. Picture to yourself the feel- 
ings of a proper English youug lady under such circumstances. 
Celia certainly will never love me, but in time, in a short 
time, you shall see. When a girl sees that a man is in earnest, 
that if she appeals to his pity, he laughs ; if to his mercy, he 
laughs ; if to such trifles as disparity of religion or of age, 
he laughs — why, you see that woman ends by giving in. 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


190 

Besides it is a compliment to her. I know that I have not 
your influence or good wishes. I did not expect them, and 
can do without them. You are as romanesque as your pupil 
— ga va sans dire. But I have her father's. She looks very 
pretty — very sweet indeed — when she gives me one of those 
upward looks of hers which mean entreaty. What will she 
be when I have trained her to use those eyes for political 
purposes ? " 

It reminded me of a boy with a mouse in a trap. You 
know how pretty the creature is, her eyes bright with terror 
and despair, looking at you through the fears which she has 
been frantically gnawing all the night. Shame and pity to 
kill the pretty thing. One might tame her. So Herr 
Raumer, like the schoolboy, admired his prisoner. She was 
caught in his cage : at least he thought so : she amused him : 
she pleased his fancy : he would keep her for himself, caged 
and tamed. 

So Celia came to us. 

‘‘ I am in trouble,” she said to the Captain, and I came 
here. Laddy knows what sort of trouble it is, but we ought 
not to speak of it just yet. Say something, dear Captain, to 
help us.” 

The Captain in his simple way took her in his arms and 
kissed her. 

What trouble can you have that your friends cannot get 
you out of? I won't ask. There are troubles enough of all 
sorts. All of them come from somebody disobeying orders. 
Have you followed the instructions, my dear ? ” 

I have tried to, Captain.” 

Then there will be no great harm done, be sure. ‘ Like 
a tree planted by the rivers of water, his leaf shall not wither.’ 
Now I tell you what we will do. We will blow some of the 
trouble away by a sail up the harbour. First let us have tea.” 

I remember,” the Captain said, when he had finished his 
tea ; I remember in the action of Navarino, which you may 

have heard of, my pretty Laddy, what are you sniggering 

at? Of course Celia has heard of Navarino. Very well, 
then, you shall not hear that story, though it might be 


THE WOKLD AND THE WORD. 


191 

brought to bear upoii the present trouble. The best of sea 
actions is the use they can be put to in all sorts of private 
affairs. That is not generally known, Celia, my dear : and 
it makes an action the more interesting to read. Nelson’s 
example always applies. Lay your guns low — nail your 
colours to the mast — pipe all hands for action : and then — 
alongside the enemy, however big she is. As to the rest, 
that’s not your concern — and it’s in good hands.” 

I wish I knew what my duty was,” said Celia. 

‘‘I wish you did, my dear. And you will know, turning 
it over in your own mind. I thank God that my life has 
been a simple one. I never saw any doubt about the line of 
duty. My orders have always been plain. My children,” 
he added, solemnly, ‘‘ we all start in life with sealed orders. 
Some men, when they open them, find them difficult to 
understand. Now the way to understand them — they are 
all here ” — he laid his hand upon a certain book on the small 
table beside him — is to remember, first of all, that duty has 
got to be done, and that we are not always out on a holiday 
cruise in pleasant waters.” 

I know,” said Celia, I know. Captain ” — the tears 
standing in her eyes. 

‘‘They talk about church going and sermons,” the Captain 
went on, “ well it’s part of the discipline. Must have order; 
church belongs to it — and I’m a plain man, not asked for an 
opinion. But, Cis, my dear, and Laddy, there’s one thing 
borne in upon me every day stronger. It is that we’ve got 
a model always before us. As Christ lived, we must live ; 
those who live most like Him talk the least, because they 
think the more. I read once, in a book, of a statue of Christ. 
Now whoever went to see that statue, however tall he was^ 
found it just a little taller than himself. It was a parable, 
Celia, I suppose. And it means that the nearer you get to 
Christ the more you find that you cannot reach Him. Be 
good, my children. And now, Celia, if you will put on your 
hat, we will start. It’s a fine evening, with a fair breeze, 
and we need not be back before nine. No more talk about 
troubles till to-morrow.” 


192 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 

T he sun was still tigt, but fast sloping westwards ; there 
was a strong breeze blowing up the harbour from the 
south-west, the tide was full, the water was bright, its 
wavelets touched by the sunshine, each one sparkling like a 
diamond with fifty facets, the old ships, bathed in the soft 
evening light, looked as if they were resting from a long 
day’s work, the hammers in the Dockyard were quiet, and 
though the beach was crowded it was with an idle throng 
who congregated together to talk of ships, and they naturally 
tended in the direction of the beach because the ships were 
in sight as illustrations. We kept our oars and mast with 
the running-gear in safety in one of the houses on the Hard 
behind a shop. It was a strange and picturesque shop, 
where everything was sold that was useless and interesting 
— a museum of a shop; in the window were Malay creases 
taken in some deadly encounter with pirates in the narrow 
seas ; clubs richly carved and ornamented for some South 
Sea Island chief; beads worked in every kind of fashion; 
feathers, bits of costume, everything that a sailor picks up 
abroad, brings home in his chest, and sells for nothing to 
such an omnivorous dealer as the owner of this shop. He, 
indeed, was as strange as his shop. He had been a purser’s 
clerk, and in that capacity had once as strange an experience 
as I ever heard. He told it me one evening when, by the 
light of a single candle, I was looking at some things in his 
back parlour. Some day, perhaps, I will tell yon that story. 
Not now. Some day, I will write down what I can recollect 
of the stories he told me connected with his collection. There 
is no reason now for suppressing them any longer ; he is dead, 
and all those whose mouthpiece he was are dead too. I think 
that in every man over forty there lies, mostly only known to 
himself, a strange and wondrous tale. Could he tell it as it 
really happened, it would be the story of how events perfectly 
commonplace in the eyes of other people acted upon him like 


A NIGHT UP THE HAEBOUR 


193 


strokes of Fate, crushing the higher hope that was in him, 
and condemning him to penal servitude for life, to remain 
upon the lower levels. Because it is mostly true that many 
run, but to one only is given the prize. Am I — are you — 
the only one whom fortune has mocked ? JV^os numeriis 
sumus^ the name of the Unfortunate is Legion ; no one has 
the exclusive right to complain. To fifty Fate holds out the 
golden apples of success, and one only gets them. 

We took our sculls and sails from the shop, and rigged our 
craft. She was built something on the lines of a wherry, for 
' sea-worthiness, a strong, serviceable boat, not too heavy for 

ji a pair of sculls, and not too light to sail under good press of 

^ canvas. Everybody knew us on the beach — the boatmen, 

) the old sailors, and the sailors' wives who were out with the 

j children because the weather was so fine, all had a word to 

say to the Captain, touching their forelocks by way of preface, 
f One carried our oars, another launched the boat, another sent 

a boy for a couple of rough sea-rugs, because the wind was 
^ high and the young lady might get wet, and in the midst of 

* the general excitement we jumped in, and pushed oflf 

\ Celia sat in the stern, one of the rugs serving as a cushion, 

; and held the rudder-strings. The Captain sat opposite her. 

i I took the sculls to row her clear of the beach, until we 
could hoist our sail. 

; This is what I like,'’ said the Captain, dragging a little 

ii more of the waterproof over Celia’s feet in his careful way. 

; ‘‘A bright day, a breeze aft, but not dead aft — Laddy, we 

; shall have some trouble getting back — a tight little boat, and 

' a pretty girl like little Cis in command. Aha ! Catch an 

old salt insensible to lovely woman. 

i 

5 •• ‘ Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 

f The mainmast by the board ; 

I My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, 

) And love well stored.’ ” 

'1 

I Celia laughed. Her spirits rose as each dip of the sculls 

I lengthened our distance from the shore, and made her certain 

i of escaping, at least for one evening, from her persecutor. 

N 


194 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


She wore some pretty sort of brown Holland stuff made into 
a jacket, and braided with a zig-zag Vandyke pattern in red. 
I do not know how I remember that pattern of the braid, 
but it seems as if I remember every detail of that evening — 
her bright and animated face flushed with the pleasure and 
excitement of the little voyage, rosy in the evening sunshine, 
the merry eyes with which she turned to greet the Captain’s 
little compliment, the halo of youth and grace which lay 
about her, the very contour of her figure as she leaned aside, 
holding both the rudder strings on one side. I remember 
the little picture just as if it was yesterday. 

Outside the ruck of boats which came and went between 
the opposite shores of the port we were in free and open 
water, and could ship the sculls and hoist our sail for a run 
up the harbour. 

The sail up, I came aft, and sat down in the bottom of the 
ship, while the Captain held the rope and Celia the strings. 
And for a space none of us talked. 

Our course carried us past the Docks and the shore-line 
buildings of the Dockyard. There were the white wharves, 
the cranes, the derricks, and all sorts of capstans, chains, and 
other gear for lifting and hoisting ; the steam-tugs were 
lying alongside; all as deserted and as quiet as if the Yard 
belonged to some old civilisation. Bright as the evening 
was, the effect was rather ghostly, as we glided, silent save 
for the rippling at the bows, along the silent bank. Presently 
we came to the building-sheds. Some of them were open and 
empty; some were closed; within each of the closed sheds 
lay, we knew, the skeleton, the half-finished frame, of a mighty 
man-o’-war — some of them but just begun ; some ready to be 
launched ; some, the deserted and neglected offspring of some 
bygone First Lord’s experimental ignorance, lying as they 
had lain for thirty years, waiting for the order to be finished 
off and launched. 

Think of the twilight solitude in those great empty sheds, 
Cis,” I whispered. ‘‘ Think of the ghosts of wrecked ships 
haunting the places where they were built when the moon- 
light streams in at the windows. Fancy seeing the trans- 


A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 


195 


parent outline of some old three-decker, say the great Victory^ 
as she went down with a thousand men aboard, lying upon 
the timber-shores ” 

“With the ghosts of the old ship-builders,” said Celia, 
“ walking about with their hands behind them, criticising 
the new-fashioned models.” 

“More likely to be swearing at steam,” said the Captain. 
The new-fashioned models ! Where are they now, the ships 
which were on the slips twenty years ago? The Duke of 
Marlhorough, the Prince of Wales^ the Royal Frederick, the 
Royal Sovereign . — Where is last years snow? They are 
harbour ships, ships cut down and altered into ironclads, and 
of a date gone out of fashion. 

There were many more ships in harbour then than now ; 
we had not yet learned to put all our trust in iron, and 
where we have one serviceable fighting vessel now we had 
twenty then. No hulk in the good old days, that could fioat 
and could steer but could fight ; there were no torpedoes, no 
rams, no iron vessels, no venomous little monitors. To lay 
yourself alongside an enemy and give broadside for broad- 
side till one tired of it, was the good old fashion of a naval 
battle. What is it now ? 

Again, twenty years ago they did not break up and destroy 
every vessel that seemed to be past service. She was towed 
up harbour and left there moored in her place, to furnish at 
least house accommodation for a warrant officer, if she could 
be of no other use. There were hundreds of ships there lying 
idle, their work over ; some of them were coal hulks, some 
convict hulks, some receiving hulks ; most were old pensioners 
who did no work any more, floating at high tide, and at low 
lying in the soft cushion of the harbour mud. Presently we 
ran among them all, passing in and out, and through their 
lines. Then I took the rudder-strings so that Celia might 
look while the Captain talked. 

He pushed his hat well back, sat upright, and began to 
look up and down the familiar craft with the eye of an old 
friend anxious to see tb 'n looking their best. It was not 
much they could s' ^~w in V e way of decoration, but the 


196 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


figure-heads were there still, and the balconies and carvings 
of the stern were mostly uninjured. As for the hull, it had 
generally been painted either black, white, or yellow. There 
were masts, but they had jurymasts to serve as derricks on 
occasion. That is the Queen Charlotte^ my dear. She was 
flagship at Algiers when Lord Exmouth showed the Moors 
we would stand no more nonsense. WeVe fought a good 
many naval actions, but I think that business was about the 
best day’s work we ever did. I was chasing Arab dhows and 
slavers off Zanzibar, and hadn’t the chance of doing my share 
of the work. In 1816, that was 

‘‘ Look — look — Celia ! Look, children. There’s the old 
Asia, God bless her ! Flagship, Celia, at Navarino. My old 
ship — my one battle. Ah ! Navarino. They say now it was 
a mistake, and that we only played the Russians* game. No 
chance of doing that again. But anyhow it was a glorious 
victory.** The recollection of that day was always too much 
for the Captain, and he might have gone on the whole even- 
ing with personal reminiscences of the battle, but for the 
breeze which freshened up and carried us past the Asia, 

‘‘ No confounded steam,** he growled, ‘‘ no wheels and 
smoke spoiling the decks ; quiet easy sailing, and no noise 
allowed aboard until the guns began to speak. Forty people 
were drowned when she was launched ; and a good many 
more went below when she made herself heard at Acre. I 
was not there either, more’s the pity. I was cruising about 
the narrow seas picking up pirates off Borneo. 

There is the Egmont, She fought the French fleet in 
1795, and the Spaniards in 1797. Good old craft. Stout old 
man-o’-war. 

‘‘That is the Illustrious^ moored in line with the Egmont, 
She was with her in *95, and I think she helped to take Java 
in 1 8 1 1 . We used, in those days, you see, Celia, if we wanted 
a place that belonged to the enemy, just to go and take it. 
Not that we were so unmannerly as not to give them a civil 
choice. We used to say, ‘Gentlemen, Senors Caballeros, 
Mynheer Double Dutchmen,’ as the case might be, ‘ we’ve 
come to haul down your bunting and run up the Union Jack 


A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 


197 


over your snug quarters. So, as perhaps you would not like 
to give in without a bit of a fight, you had better ram in your 
charge, and we’ll give you a lead.’ Then the action began, 
and after a respectable quantity of powder was burned they 
struck their colours, we went ashore, the men had a spree, 
and the officers made themselves agreeable to the young 
ladies.” 

‘‘ Did not the young ladies object to making friends with 
the enemy?” 

Not at all, my dear. Why should they ? We did them 
no wrong, and we generally represented the popular side ; 
they wanted to be taken by the British Fleet, which meant 
safety as well as flirtation. And we enjoyed our bit of fight- 
ing first. Did you ever hear of Captain Willoughby in 
Mahebourg Bay, Island of Mauritius? Well, that’s an un- 
lucky story, because it ended badly, and instead of Willoughby 
taking the island the island took him. Ean his ship ashore. 
She turned on her side, so that her guns couldn’t be brought 
to bear. They found the captain with one eye out and a leg 
shot off. The French captain had a leg shot oflf too, and so 
they put them both in the same bed, where they got better, 
and drank each other’s health. The worst of it was that what 
we sailors got for England the politicians gave away again 
when they signed a peace. We let the Dutch liave Java, we 
let the French have Bourbon and Guadaloupe. I wonder we 
didn’t give New Zealand to the Americans, and I daresay we 
should if they had thought of asking for it. 

That is the Colossus, my dear. Good old ship, too ; she 
was at Trafalgar. There is the Alfred^ who helped to take 
Guadaloupe in 1810, and the Molus frigate. She fired a shot 
or two at Martinique the year before. Look at them the row 
of beauties ; forty-two- pounders, the handiest and most 
murderous craft that ever went to sea ; and look at the sloops 
and the little three-gun brigantines. I had one under my 
command once. And there is the Columhine'* 

The Captain began to sing : 

“ * The Trinculo may do her best, 

And the Alert so fleet, sir, 


198 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUK. 


Alert she is, but then she’s not 
Alert enough to beat, sir. 

The J corn and the Satellite^ 

Their efforts, too, may try, sir, 

But if they beat the Columhine, 

Why, dash it ! — they must fly, sir.* 

They will build no more such ships ; seamanship means 
poking the fire. Look at those things now.” 

He pointed with great contempt to the war steamers. 
Those of 1858 would be thought harmless things enough 
now. Two or three had screws, but most had the old paddles. 
The Duke of Wellington of 130 guns carried a screw ; so did 
the Blenheim^ the Archer^ and the Encounter^ all of which 
were lying in the harbour. But the Odin^ the Basilisk^ and 
the Sidon were splendid paddle steamers. Among them lay 
the Megoera, a troopship, afterwards wrecked on St. Paul’s 
Island ; the Queen’s steam yacht, the Fairy, as pretty a craft 
as ever floated, in which her Majesty used to run to and fro 
between Osborne and the port ; the Victoria and Albert^ the 
larger Royal yacht ; and the pretty little Bee,^ smallest 
steamer afloat, before they invented the noisy little steam 
launches to kill the fish, to tear down the banks of the rivers, 
and to take the bread out of the mouths of the old wherry- 
men in our harbour. 

We were drawing near the last of the big ships. 

There, Oelia, look at that craft,” cried the Captain. ‘‘ Do 
you see anything remarkable about her ? ” 

No ; only she is yellow.” 

‘‘That is because she is a receiving hulk,” he informed 
her, with the calmness that comes of a whole reservoir 
of knowledge behind. “ It is in her cut that I mean. 
Don’t you remark the cut of her stern, the lines of her 
bows ? ” 

She shook her head, and laughed. 

“ Oh ! the ignorance of womankind,” said the Captain. 
“ My dear, she’s French. Now you see ? ” 

Again Celia shook her head. 

“Well,” he sighed, “I suppose it’s no use trying to make 


A NIGHT VP THE ttARBOtm. 


199 


a young lady understand such a simple thing. If it had 
been a bit of lace now, or any other fal-lal and flapdoodle — 
never mind, ray pretty, youhe wise enough upon your own 
lines. That is the Blonde^ ray dear, and she is one of the 
very last of the old prizes left. When she is broken up I 
don’t know where I could go to look for another of the old 
French prizes. My father, who was a Master in the Navy, 
navigated her into this very port. She struck her flag off 
Brest. 

It is a page of history, children,” he went on, this old 
harbour. They ought to keep all the ships just as they are^ 
and never break up one till she drops to pieces. The brave 
old ships! It seems a shame, too, to turn them into coal 
hulks and convict hulks. I would paint them every year, 
and keep them for the boys and girls to see. ^ These are 
the craft of the old fighting bulldogs,’ I would tell them. 

‘ You’ve got to fight your own battles in a different sort of 
way. But be bulldogs, however you go into action, and 
you’ll pull through just as your fathers did.’ 

‘‘I saw a sight when I was a boy,” the Captain went 
on, that you’ll never see again, unless the Lords of the 
Admiralty take my advice and give over breaking-up ships. 
I saw the last of the oldest ship in the service. She was the 
Royal William^ eighty guns. That ship was built for Charles 
the Second, sailed for James the Second, and fought off and 
on for a hundred and forty years. Then they broke her up 
— in 1812 — because, I suppose, they were tired of looking 
at her. She ought to be afloat now, for sounder timber you 
never saw.” 

‘‘ Shall we down sail and out sculls ? ” I asked. 

The Captain answered by a gesture, and we kept on our 
course. The tide was running out rapidly. 

Five minutes more, Laddy,” he said. We’ve time to 
go as far as Jack the Painter’s Point, and then we’ll come 
down easy and comfortable with the last of the ebb.” 

We had left the lines of ships and hulks behind us now, 
and were sailing over the broad surface of the upper harbour, 
where it is wise even at high tide to keep to the creeks, the 


200 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUn. 


lines of wBicli are indicated by posts. In these there lay, so 
old that they had long since been forgotten, some half a 
dozen black hulls, each tenanted by a single ex-warrant officer 
with his family. Even the Captain, who knew most ships, 
could not tell the history of these mysterious vessels. What 
life, I used to think as a boy, could compare with that of 
being the only man on board one of these old ships ? Fancy 
being left in charge of such a vessel, yourself all alone, or 
perhaps with Leonard moored alongside, also in charge of 
one. Robinson Crusoe in his most solitary moments could 
not have felt happier. Then to wander and explore the 
great empty ship; to open the cabin and look in the old 
lockers; to I’oam about in the dim silences of the lower 
deck, the twilight of the orlop ; the mysterious shades of 
the cockpit, and to gaze down the impenetrable Erebus of 
the hold. 

To this day I can never go on board a great ship without 
a feeling of mysterious treasures and strange secrets lurking 
in the depths below me. And what a place for ghosts! 
think, if you could constrain the ghosts on those old ships 
to speak, what tales they could tell of privateering, of pirat- 
ing, of perils on the Spanish Main, of adventure, of pillage, 
and of glory. There may be a ghost or two in old inns, 
deserted houses, ruined castles, and country churchyards. 
But they are nothing, they can be nothing, compared with 
the ghosts on an old ship lying forgotten up the harbour. 
Cis shudders, and thinks she can get on very well without 
ghosts, and that when she wants their society she would 
rather meet them ashore. 

That ships may be haunted,” said the Captain gravely, 
‘^is true beyond a doubt. Every sailor will tell you that. 
Did you never hear how we were haunted aboard the Fear^ 
novght by the ghost of the purser’s clerk ? ” 

I have always regretted, for Celia’s sake, that we did not 
hear that story. The Captain stopped because we were close 
on Jack the Painter’s Point, and we had to attend to the 
boat. 

The Point was a low-lying narrow tongue of land with one 


A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 


20l 


solitary tree upon it, running out into the harbour. It had 
an edging or beach of dingy sand, behind which the turf 
began, in knots of long coarse grass, between which, at high 
tide, the ground was soft and marshy ; when the water was 
out it was difBcult to tell where the mud ended and the land 
began. Now, when the tide was at its highest, the little 
point, lapped by the waves, and backed by its single tree, 
made a pretty picture. It was a lonely and deserted spot, 
far away from any house or inhabited place ; there was not 
even a road near it ; behind was a barren field of poor grass 
where geese picked up a living with anxiety and continual 
effort; and it was haunted by the gloomiest associations, 
because here the ghost of Jack the Painter walked. 

It was not a fact open to doubt, like some stories of haunted 
places ; Jack had been seen by a crowd of witnesses, respect- 
able mariners, whose testimony was free from any tinge of 
doubt. It walked after nightfall ; It walked backwards and 
forwards, up and down the narrow tongue of land ; It walked 
with Its hands clasped behind Its neck, and Its head bent 
forward as if in pain. Anybody might be in pain after 
hanging for years in chains. Imitate that action, and 
conjure up, if yon can, the horror of such an attitude when 
assumed by a ghost. 

The story of Painter Jack was an episode in the last 
century. He belonged to the fraternity of ropemakers, a 
special Guild in this port, the members of which enjoyed 
the privilege, whenever the Sovereign paid the place a visit, 
of marching in procession, clad in white jackets, nankeen 
trousers, and blue sashes in front of the Eoyal carriage. 
The possession of his share in this privilege ought to have 
made Jack, as it doubtless made the rest of his brethren, 
virtuous and happy. It did not : Jack became moody, and 
nursed thoughts of greatness. Unfortunately, his ambitions 
led him in the same direction as those of the illustrious 
Eratostratus. He achieved greatness by setting fire to the 
rope-walk. They found out who had done it, after the fire 
was over and a vast amount of damage had been done, and 
they tried the unluckv Jack for the offence. He confessed, 


202 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


made an edifying end, and was hanged in chains on that 
very point which now bears his name. It was in 1776, and 
twenty years ago there were still people who remembered 
the horrid gibbet and the black body, tarred, shapeless, 
hanging in chains, and swinging stridently to and fro in the 
breeze. Other gentlemen who were gibbetted in the course 
of the same century had friends to come secretly and take 
them down. Mr. Bryan, for instance, was one. He for a 
brief space kept company with Painter Jack, hanging beside 
him, clad handsomely in black velvet, new shoes, and a laced 
shirt. . He was secretly removed by his relations. Williams 
the Marine was another; he was popular in the force, and 
his comrades took him down. So that poor Jack was left 
quite alone in that dreary place, and partly out of habit, 
partly because it had no more pleasant places of resort, the 
ghost continued to roam about the spot where the body had 
hung so long. 

‘‘ Down sail, out sculls,” said the Captain. “ Hard a-port, 
Celia. We’ll drop down easy and comfortable with the tide. 
How fast it runs out ! ” 

It was too late to think of tacking home with the wind 
dead against us, and the tide was strong in our favour. I 
took the sculls and began mechanically to row, looking at 
Celia. She was more silent now. Perhaps she was thinking 
of her persistent lover, for the lines of her mouth were set 
hard. I do not know what the Captain was thinking of; 
perhaps of Leonard. However that may be, we were a boat’s 
crew without a coxswain for a few minutes. 

“ Laddy !” cried the Captain, starting up, “ where have we 
got to ? ” 

I held up and looked round. The tide was running out 
faster than I had ever known it. We were in the middle of 
one of the great banks of mud, and there was, I felt at once, 
but a single inch between the keel and the mud. I grasped 
the sculls again, and pulled as hard as I knew ; but it was of 
no use. The next moment we touched ; then a desperate 
struggle to pull her through the mud ; then we stuck fast, 
and, like the water flowing out of a cup, the tide ran away 


A NIGHT UP THE HAPBOUE. ^03 

from the mud- bank, leaving us high and dry, fast prisoners 
for six hours. 

We looked at each other in dismay. 

Then the Captain laughed. 

Not the first boat’s crew that has had to pass the night 
on the mud,” he said cheerfully. Lucky we’ve got the 
wraps. Celia, my dear, do you think you shall mind it very 
much? We will put you to sleep in the stern while Laddy 
and I keep watch and watch. No supper, though. Poor 
little maid ! Poor Celia ! ” 

She only laughed. She liked the adventure. 

There was no help for it, not the slightest. Like it or not, 
we had to pass the night where we were, unless we could 
wade, waist deep, for a mile through black mud to Jack the 
Painter’s Point. 

The tide which had left us on the bank had retreated from 
the whole upper part of the harbour. But the surface of 
the mud was still wet, and the splendour of the setting sun 
made it look like a vast expanse of molten gold. One 
might have been on the broad ocean, with nothing to break 
the boundless view but a single solitary islet with a tree 
on it, for so seemed the Point of Painter Jack. The sky 
was cloudless, save in the west, where the light mists of 
evening were gathered together, like the courtiers at the 
coucJier die r.n', to take farewell of the sun, clad in their 
gorgeous dresses of pearl- grey, yellow, crimson, and emerald. 
Athwart the face of the setting sun, a purple cleft in light 
and cloud, stood up the solitary poplar on the Point. 
Bathed and surrounded by the western glory, it seemed to 
have lost all restraints of distance, and to form, in the 
far-off splendour, part and parcel of the sapphire -tinted 
west. 

As we looked, the sun sank with a plunge, the evening gun 
from the Duke of York’s bastion over the mouth of the har- 
bour saluted the departure of day. The courtier clouds did 
not immediately disperse, but slowly began putting off their 
bright apparel. 

In a quarter of an hour the outside clouds were grey ; in 


204 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


half an hour all were grey ; and presently we began to see 
the stars clear and bright in the cloudless sky. 

The day is gone,” murmured Celia, morn is breaking 
somewhere beyond the Atlantic. We ought not to let the 
thoughts of our own selfish cares spoil the evening, but when 
the sun sank, my heart sank too.” 

Faith and Hope, my pretty,” said the Captain. “ Come, 
it is nearly nine o’clock. Let us have evening prayers and 
turn in.” 

This was our godly custom before supper. The Captain 
read a chapter — he was not particular what — regarding all 
chapters as so many Articles or Rules of the ship, containing 
well-defined duties, on the proper performance of which rested 
the hope of future promotion. On this occasion we had no 
chapter, naturally. But we all stood up while the Captain 
took off his hat and recited one or two prayers. Then Celia 
and I sang the Evening Hymn. Our voices sounded strange 
in the immensity of the heavens above us — strange and 
small. 

And then we sat down, and the Captain began to wrap 
Celia round in the waterproofs. She refused to have more 
than one, and we finally persuaded him to take one for him- 
self — they were good-sized serviceable things, fortunately — 
and to leave us the other. We all three sat down in the 
stern of the boat, the Captain on the boards with his elbow 
on the seat, and Celia and I, side by side, the rug wrapped 
round us, close together. 

Ashore the bells of the old church were playing their 
hymn tune, followed by the curfew. 

‘‘The bells sound sweetly across the water,” murmured 
Celia. “ Listen, Laddy, what do they say ? ” 

“ I know what the big bell says,” I reply. “ It has written 
upon it what it says : 

“ ‘ We good people all 
To prayers do call. 

We honour to king, 

And bride’s joy do bring. 

Good tidings we tell, 

And rinof the dead’s knelL* ** 


A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 


205 


‘ Good tidings we tell/ ” she whispers. What good 
tidings for us, Laddy ? ” 

I will tell you presently,” I say, when I have made them 
out.” 

The bells cease, and silence falls upon us. It has grown 
darker, but there is no real darkness during this summer 
night, only a twilight which makes the shadows black. As 
we look down the harbour, where the ships lie, it is a scene 
of enchantment. For the men-o’- war’s lights, not regular, 
but scattered here and there over the dark waters, light up 
the harbour, and produce an effect stranger than any theatrical 
scene. 

Said the Captain, thinking still of the ships — 

A ship’s life is like a man’s life. She is put in commis- 
sion after years of work to fit her up — that’s our education. 
She sails away on the business of the country, she has storms 
and calms, so have the landlubbers ashore ; she has good 
captains and bad captains ; she has times of good behaviour 
and times of bad ; sometimes she’s wrecked ; — well, there’s 
many a good fellow thrown away so ; sometimes she goes 
down in action — nothing finer than that — and sometimes she 
spends the rest of her life up in harbour. Well for her if she 
isn’t made a convict hulk. Celia, my dear, you are comfort- 
able, and not too cold ? ” 

Not a bit cold, Captain, thank you, only rather hungry.” 

There was no help for that, and the Captain, announcing 
his intention to turn in, enjoined me to wake him at twelve, 
so that we two could keep watch and watch about, covered 
his head with the rug, and in five minutes was fast asleep. 

Then Celia and I had the night all to ourselves. 

We were sitting close together, with the waterproof round 
our shoulders. Presently, getting a little cramped, Celia 
slipped down from the seat, and curled herself up close to the 
sleeping Captain, resting her head upon my knees, while I 
laid my arm round her neck. 

Was it treachery, when I had striven to beat down and 
conquer a passion which was not by any means fraternal, for 
me to feel as if there had never been a perfect night since the 


2o6 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


world for me began till this one ? I wished it would last for 
ever. When before bad I had my queen all to myself in the 
long sweet silences of a summer night ? And none to hear 
what we said. 

There was no word of love, because that was all on one side, 
but there was talk. We did not sleep that night. The air 
was soft and warm, though sometimes came a cold touch of 
wind which made us pull the wraps tighter, and nestle close 
to each other. But we talked in low whispers, partly because 
the night is a sacred time, and partly because we were care- 
ful not to wake the Captain. 

Tell me now/’ she whispered, ‘‘ tell me the good tidings 
of the bells.” 

I thought of Leonard’s last secret which he told me when 
he left me on the platform of the station. ‘‘ Tell Cis ? ” he 
said ; that would spoil all.” Yet I did tell Cis. I told her 
that night. 

“ The bells said, Cis, that there only wanted a fortnight to 
Leonard’s return. He will come back brave and strong.” 

And he will make all right,” she cried eagerly^ clasping 
my hand in hers. Go on, Laddy dear.” 

He will make all right. The German shall be sent about 

his business, and — and ” 

And we all will go on just as we used to, Laddy.” 

“ N — not quite, Cis. When Leonard went away, he told 
me a great secret. I was not to tell anybody. And I should 
not tell you now, only that I think it will do good to both 
of us, that you should know it. Tell me, my sister, you have 
not forgotten Leonard ? ” 

Forgotten Leonard ! Laddy, how could I ? ” 

You think of him still. You remember how brave and 

true he was; how he loved — us both ” 

I remember all, Laddy.” 

When he left me, Cis — he told me — Hush ! let me 
whisper — low — low — in your ear— that his greatest hope was 
to come back in five years’ time, a gentleman — to find you 
free — and to ask you — to ask you, Cis — to marry him.” 

She did not answer, but as she lay in the boat her hands 


A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. 


207 


holding mine, her face bent down, I felt a tear fall on my 
finger ; I do not think it was a tear of sorrow. 

You are not offended, Ois dear ? ’' I whispered. I have 
done wrong not in telling you ? ” 

Let it be a secret between you and me, Laddy,” she said 
presently. Do not let us ever speak of it again.’’ 

Cis, you told me once that you would hide nothing from 
me. Tell me — if Leonard asked you ” 

She threw her arms round my neck, and hid her face upon 
my shoulder. ‘‘ Laddy,” she whispered, “ there is no day, in 
all these five years, that I have not prayed, night and morn- 
ing, for Leonard.” 

Then we were silent. 

The hours sped too swiftly, marked by the bells of the ships 
in commission. About two in the morning the tide began to 
turn, and the day began to break. First, the dull black sur- 
face of flats became wet and glittered in the light. Then the 
water crept up and covered all ; it took time to reach us, 
because we were on a bank. And all the time we watched, 
the grey in the east grew tinged with all colours ; and the 
wild-fowl rose out of their sleeping-places by the shore, and 
flew screaming heavenwards in long lines or arrow-headed 
angles. And presently the sun arose, splendid. 

Laddy,” whispered Celia, for the Captain still slept, 
“ this is more glorious than the evening.” 

At six bells, which is three in the morning, we floated. 
I noiselessly stepped over the sleeping form of the Captain 
and took the sculls, dipping them in the water as softly as I 
could. He did not awake until half an hour later, when our 
bows struck the beach, and at the noise the Captain started 
up. It was nearly four o’clock ; no boats were on the har- 
bour ; the stillness contrasted strangely with the light of the 
summer morning. 

‘‘Laddy,” grumbled the Captain, “you’ve kept double 
watch. You call that sailor-like ? — Celia, my dear, you 
have not caught cold ? ” 

When we reached home, the Captain insisted on our going 
to bed. 


2o8 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


‘‘We have passed a night I shall never forget, Laddy/’ 
said Celia at the door. 

“ A sacred night, Cis.’ 

She stooped down, my tall and gracious lady, and kissed 
my forehead. 

“ What should I do without you, Laddy ? To have some 
one in the world to whom you can tell everything and not 
be ashamed, not be afraid. To-night has brought us very 
close together.” 

I think it had. After it we were more as we had been 
when children. My Celia, the maiden of sweet reserve, came 
back to me a child again, and told me all. 

No need to speak again of Leonard. It remained only 
to look forward and hope and long for the weary days to 
pass away. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. \ 

T hat was a night consecrated to every kind of sweet 
memories. It was quite in the nature of things that 
it should be followed by one of a more worldly kind. In 
fact, the next day, to put the matter in plain English, we 
had a great row, a family row. 

It began with Aunt Jane. She came to tea, accompanied 
by her husband ; and she came with the evident intention 
of speaking her mind. This made us uneasy from the be- 
ginning, and although Mrs. Tyrrell attempted to pour oil on 
the troubled waters by producing her very best tea service, 
an honour which Mrs. Pontifex was certain to appreciate, 
she failed. Even tea services in pink and gold, with the 
rich silver teapot, accompanied by a lavish expenditure in 
seedcake, and Sally Lunns, and muffins, failed to bring a 
smile to that severe visage. Mrs. Pontifex was dressed for 
the occasion in a pyramidal cap trimmed with lace, beneath 
which her horizontal curls showed like the modest violet 
peeping between April leaves of grass. She wore her most 
rustling of black silk robes, and the most glittering of her 


MBS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. 


209 


stud-clasps in the black velvet ribbon which girt her brow. 
She sat bolt upright in her chair ; and such was her remark- 
able strength of character, testimony to which has already 
been given by her husband, that she struck the key-note to 
the banquet, and made it joyless. 

Who could be festive when Mrs. Pontifex icily refused 
sugar with her tea, and proceeded to deny that luxury to her 
husband? 

‘^No, John Pontifex,” she said. ‘‘It is high time to set 
less store upon creature comforts. No sugar, Celia, in my 
husband’s tea.” 

Mr. Pontifex meekly acquiesced. He was already in the 
most profound depths of depression when he arrived, and a 
cup of tea without sugar was only another addition to his 
burden of melancholy. I conjectured that he had passed the 
afternoon in the receipt of spiritual nagging. In this art his 
wife was a proficient; and although nagging of all kinds 
must be intolerable, I think the religious kind must be the 
most intolerable. The unfortunate man made no effort to 
recover his cheerfulness, and sat silent, as upright as his 
wife, the cup of unsweetened tea in his hand, staring straight 
before him. Once, his wife looking the other way, he caught 
my eye and shook his head solemnly. 

Under these circumstances we all ran before the gale close 
reefed. 

It was a bad sign that Mrs. Pontifex did not talk. If she 
had been critically snappish, if she had told her niece that 
her cap was unbecoming, or Celia that her frock was un- 
maidenly, or me that an account would be required of me 
for my idle time — a very common way she had of making 
things pleasant — one would not have minded. But she did 
not speak at all, and that terrified us. Now and then she 
opened her lips, which moved silently, and then closed with 
a snap, as if she had just framed and fired off a thunderbolt 
of speech. Her husband remarked one of these movements, 
and immediately replacing his cup upon the table, softly rose 
and effaced himself behind the window curtains, where he 
sat with only a pair of trembling knees visible. Mr. Tyrrell 

0 


210 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


pretended to be at his ease, but was not. His wife was not, 
and did not pretend to be. 

As soon as we reasonably could we rang the bell for the 
tea-things to be removed, and began some music. This was 
part of the regular programme, though no one suspected 
Mrs. Pontifex or her husband of any love for harmony. And 
while we were playing came Herr Raumer, at sight of whom 
Mrs. Pontifex drew herself up more stiffly than before, and 
coughed ominously. 

He look very fresh and young, tliis elderly foreigner. He 
was dressed neatly in a buttoned frock (no one in our circle 
wore evening dress for a gathering under the rank of dinner- 
party or dance), and had a rose in a button- hole. A little 
bit of scarlet ribbon in his breast showed that he was the 
possessor of some foreign Order. In his greeting of Celia he 
showed a Romeo-like elasticity and youthfulness, and he 
planted himself on the hearth-rug with an assured air as if 
the place and all that was in it belonged to him. 

In front of him, upon a small couch, sat Mrs. Pontifex, her 
lips moving rapidly, and her brow darker than ever. Either 
Herr Raumer was going to interrupt the battle, or he was 
himself the cause of it. Celia rose from the piano, and sat 
beside her great-aunt. Mr. Tyrrell was in an easy-chair on 
one side the fireplace, and his wife on the other, fanning her- 
self, though it was by no means a warm night. As I said 
before, Mr. Pontifex was in hiding. I sat on the music-stool 
and looked on. Had there been any way of escape I should 
have taken advantage of that way. But there was none. 

• The awful silence was broken by Aunt Jane. 

‘ Be ye not yoked unequally with unbelievers,’ ” she said. 
Then her lips closed with a snap. 

No one answered for a while. The curtain alone, behind 
which was her husband, showed signs of agitation. 

‘‘ John Pontifex,” said his wife, assist me.” 

He obeyed immediately, and took up a position behind 
her, standing opposite to the German. He looked very, very 
meek. 

‘‘ John Pontifex and I were talking this afternoon, Clara 


MKS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. 


2II 


Tyrrell and George Tyrrell, and we naturally discussed the 
strange — the very strange — rumours that are afloat with 
regard to Celia. Her name, George Tyrrell, has been coupled 
with that of this — ^this foreign gentleman here.” ^ 

Mr. Pontifex shook his head as if more in sorrow than in 
anger. 

‘‘ It is — alas ! — the fact that such rumours are prevalent.” 

You hear, George Tyrrell ? ” she went on. 

hear,” he replied. “The rumours are not without 
foundation.” 

Poor Celia ! 

“I announced to John Pontifex, this afternoon, my inten- 
tion of speaking my mind on this matter, and speaking it in 
the actual presence of Herr Eaumer himself, if necessary.” 

“ I am infinitely obliged to you, madam,” said that gentle- 
man, with a bow. “ I wish that I was already in a position 
to ask for your congratulations.” 

“ Flap doodle and fudge,” said Aunt Jane. I do not 
defend this expression, but it was her own, reserved for use 
on those occasions which required the greatest strength of 
the English language. 

All trembled except the German. Celia, by the way, 
except that she looked pale, took no apparent interest in the 
conversation. 

“ Congratulations are useless ornaments of conversation,” 
he said. “ That, I presume, is what you mean, Mrs. 
Pontifex ? ” 

She snorted. 

“ Pray, sir, will you tell us first, to what religious per- 
suasion you belong ? ” 

The unexpected question staggered him for a moment. 1 
thought he was lost. But he recovered. 

“ My excellent parents,” he said, “ who are now no longer 
living, brought me up in the strictest school — Mrs. Pontifex 
is, I believe, a member of the Anglican Church — of German 
Calvinism.” 

“And what church do you attend in this town?” 

“ Unfortunately, there is no church of my views in this 


212 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


town. The English churches, however, approach my dis- 
tinctive doctrines near enough for me/' He said this meekly, 
as if conscious of a superiority which he would not press. 

No blessing shall come from me on any marriage 
where both members are not communicants of the English 
Establishment/' 

She said that with an air of determination, as if the matter 
was settled. 

Herr Kaumer laughed softly. 

‘‘ If that is your only objection, my dear madam, it is easily 
removed. Mademoiselle vaut bien une messed 

‘‘ I do not understand French.” 

I mean that love, coupled with a short conversation with 
your learned husband over a few doctrinal difficulties, would 
permit me to present myself to you in the novel character of 
a communicant.” 

He overacted the speech, and no one could fail to see the 
sneer behind it. 

John Pontifex.” 

‘‘My dear, I am — in point of fact — behind you.” 

“ You hear what this gentleman says. You can hold a 
discussion with him in my presence. If, in my opinion, he 
proves himself worthy of our communion, I shall withdraw 
that part of my objection.” 

“It is true,” said John Pontifex, “that I am not at the 
present moment — alas ! — deeply versed in the points which 
— ahem — separate us from German Calvinism. But no doubt 
Herr Eaumer will enlighten me.” 

“ Or,” said the suitor, rolling his head, “let me refer my- 
self to a fairer theologian. Celia herself shall convert me.” 

Celia made no sign. 

“This is mockery,” Mrs. Pontifex ejaculated. “But it is 
what I expected, and indeed said to John Pontifex as we 
drove here. That a foreigner should value Christian privi- 
leges is hardly to be looked for.” 

“ That is, I believe,” said Herr Eaumer, with the faintest 
possible suspicion of contempt in his smooth tones, “the 
prevalent belief among English people. And yet no English- 


MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. 


213 


man has yet publicly doubted that even a foreigner has a 
soul to be saved.” 

Or lost,” said Mrs. Pontifex sternly. 

Her husband, who was still standing meekly beside her, 
his long arms dangling at either side, looking exactly like a 
tall schoolboy afraid of his schoolmaster, groaned audibly. 

Or lost,” echoed Herr Eaumer. 

‘‘ And pray, sir, if I may ask, what are your means of exist- 
ence ? No doubt Mr. Tyrrell knows all about your family and 
the way in which you get your living, but we have not yet been 
informed, and we also have an interest in Celia Tyrrell.” 

I have private property,” he replied, looking at Mr. 
Tyrrell, ‘‘ on the nature of which I have satisfied the young 
lady’s father.” 

Perfectly, perfectly,” said Mr. Tyrrell. 

“ How do we know but what you have a wife somewhere 
else — in Germany, or wherever you come from ?” 

“ Madam’s intentions are no doubt praiseworthy, though 
her questions are not perhaps quite conventional. However, 
there is no question I would not answer to secure the friend- 
ship of Celia’s great-aunt. I have no wife in Germany. Con- 
sider, Mrs. Pontifex, I have resided in this town for some 
twelve years. Would my wife, if I had one, be contented to 
languish in solitude and neglect ? Would you, Mrs. Pontifex, 
allow your husband to live as a bachelor — perhaps a wild and 
gay bachelor — at a distance from yourself?” 

The Eev. Mr. Pontifex smiled and sighed. Did he allow 
his imagination even for a moment to dwell on the possibility 
of a wild and rollicking life away from his wife ? 

‘^My wild oats,” he said, very slowly, with emphasis on 
each word, and shaking his head. ‘‘My — wild — oats — are 
long since — ahem ! — if I may be allowed the figure of speech 
— sown.” 

“ John Pontifex,” said his wife, “ we are not interested 
in your early sins.” 

“ I was about to remark, my dear, that they have produced 
— alas! — their usual crop of repentance — that is all. The 
wages of youthful levity ” 


214 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR 


“We will allow, Herr Eaumer,” Mrs. Pontifex interrupted 
her husband, “that you are what you represent yourself to 
be. You have means, you are a bachelor, and you are a 
Christian. Well — my questions are not, as you say, con- 
ventional, but Celia is my grand-niece, and will have my 
money when my husband and I are called away. It is no 
small thing you are seeking.” 

“ I am aware of it,” he replied. “ I am glad for your sake 
that your money is not a small thing.” 

This he should not have said, because it was impolitic. 

“ I have one question more to ask you,” said Mrs. Pontifex, 
drawing herself more upright than ever. “ You are, I under- 
stand, some sixty years of age.” 

“ I am sixty-two,” he replied blandly. “ It is my great 
misfortune to have been born forty-four years before Miss 
Celia Tyrrell.” 

“ Then in the name of goodness,” she cried, “ what on earth 
do you want with a young wife ? You are only three years 
younger than I. You might just as well ask me to marry you.” 

“ My dear ! ” cried John Pontifex, in natural alarm. 

“ I cannot, madam,” Herr Eaumer replied— “ however 
much one might desire such a consummation — I cannot ask 
you in the very presence of your husband.” 

Everybody laughed, including Celia, and Aunt Jane drew 
herself up proudly. 

“You disgraceful man ! ” she said. “ How dare you say 
such things to me? If John Pontifex were not in Holy 
Orders I should expect him to — to ” 

“ I fear I should do so, my dear,” John Pontifex interposed. 
“ I am sure, in fact, that, without the — ahem ! — the deterrent 
influence of my cloth, I should do so.” 

“I am unfortunate this evening,” the German went on, 
still bland and smiling. “ I am advanced in years. All the 
more reason why a young lady — of Christian principles — 
should assist me in passing those years pleasantly.” 

“ Pleasantly ? ” she echoed. “ Is all you think of— to pass 
the last years of your life pleasantly ? Would I allow my 
husband to pass his time in mere pleasantness ? ” 


MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. 


215 


You would not, my dear,” said John Pontifex firmly. 

Mere pleasantness : a Fool’s Paradise. George and Clara 
Tyrrell, I am your aunt, and entitled, I believe, to be heai’d.” 

‘‘ Surely,” said Mr. Tyrrell. Pray say what you think.” 

Celia laid her hand on her aunFs arm. 

‘^Dear Aunt Jane,” she said, ‘‘Herr Rauraer has done me 
the very great honour of asking me to be his wife. He has 
also very kindly consented not to press for an answer. I 
feel — I am sure he feels himself — the many difficulties in the 
way. And if those difficulties prove insuperable, I trust to 
his generosity — his generosity as a gentleman — not to press 
me any longer.” 

“ To be sure,” said Aunt Jane, “ people can always be put 
off. We can tell them that Herr Raumer felt for you the 
affection of a grandfather.” 

The German winced for a moment. 

“ Thank you, dear Mrs. Pontifex,” he said. You would 
smooth all the difficulties for us, I am sure.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Let us have no more explanations. I have to thank 
Celia — Miss Tyrrell — for putting the position of things clearly. 
If she cannot see her way to accepting my addresses — there 
is an end — and things ” — looking at Mr. Tyrrell — must take 
their own course. If she can, she will have in me a devoted 
husband who will be proud to belong to the families of Tyrrell 
and Pontifex.” 

Aunt Jane was not, however, to be mollified. She kissed 
Celia on the forehead. “ You are a sensible girl, my dear, 
and you will know how to refuse a man old enough to be your 
grandfather,” — then she gathered her skirts together. George 
and Clara Tyrrell, when you have got over this folly, we shall 
be glad to see you at our house again. If it comes to any- 
thing further I shall alter my will. John Pontifex, I am 
ready.” 

She swept out of the room followed by her husband. 

Then Mrs. Tyrrell sat up and began to express her indigna- 
tion. 

“When young people desire to marry,” she said to her 


2i6 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR 


future son-in-law, who was not much more than twenty years 
older than herself, ‘‘they speak to each other, and then to 
their parents. That is regular, I believe ? ” 

“ Quite regular,” said the Herr. 

‘‘ When they have asked each other, and then spoken to 
the parents,” she went on, exhausting the subject, what else 
remains to be said ? ” 

“Clearly nothing.” 

“ There certainly is a difference in age,” said the good lady. 

“ But if Celia does not mind that ” 

Quite so,” he interrupted. 

“ Religion, too, the same,” she went on. 

“ Actually a coincidence in religion.” 

‘‘ Then what Aunt Jane meant by going off in that way, I 
cannot conceive. The very best tea-things, too ! ” 

‘‘ My dear mamma,” said Celia, the conversation is useless. 
I am not engaged to Herr Raumer.” 

Nothing more was said, and the lover presently withdrew. 

Mr. Tyrrell led me downstairs to his own office. 

There he took the step common among Englishmen who 
are anxious and nervous, especially when they want to deaden 
repentance. He drank a tumbler and a half of brandy-and- 
water strong. 

wish he was dead, Laddy,” he murmured; ‘‘I wish he 
was dead.” 

“ Can you do nothing ? ” 

“ I can put him off — I can gain time — and perhaps some- 
thing will happen. If not she must marry him. She must. 
Else ” 

He finished his glass of brandy* and- water. 

‘‘ She must not. Face anything rather than bring such a 
fate upon your daughter.” 

‘‘ Face anything,” he repeated. ‘‘ What do you know 
about it ? ” 

‘‘ At least I know that there is nothing in common with 
him and your daughter.” 

‘‘What have I in common with my wife? Stuff and 
nonsense. What has any man in common with his wife? 


MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. 


517 


The husband and the wife lead different lives. When they 
are together in what they call society, they pretend. Rubbish 
about things in common.” 

Then look at the difference of age.” 

So much the better, Ladislas,” said Mr. Tyrrell fiercely. 
I hardly knew him to-night in this unusual mood. So 
much the better. He will die soon perhaps ; the sooner the 
better.” 

Will he treat her kindly ? ” 

They will live in this town. I shall watch them. If he 
ill-treats my little girl — my pretty Celia — I will — I will — 
but that is nonsense. He will make her his plaything.” 

‘‘ Is that what Celia looks for in marriage.” 

Will you have some brandy-and-water ? No. I take it 
now, just for the present while this business worries me, to 
steady the nerves.” 

He mixed himself another tumbler. 

«« Why, Ladislas,” he resumed his talk, how foolishly you 
talk. One would think you were a girl. What Celia looks 
for in marriage ! What is the use of looking for anything, 
either from marriage or anything else in this world ? Dis- 
appointment we shall get — never doubt it — and punishment 
for mistakes — never doubt that. Probably also bad men, 
unscrupulous men, will get a hold of you, and make you do 
things you would rather afterwards not have done. 

^^If I had the key of that safe,” he murmured, sinking 
into a chair; “if I only had the key of that safe” — it was 
the small fireproof safe, with Herr Eaumer s name upon it — 
“ Celia should be free.” 

I came away sick and sorry. I had heard enough, and 
more than enough. I knew it all along. My poor Celia! 

“ If I had the key of that safe I ” 

Then it occurred to me that the German must have it 
somewhere. I went to bed and dreamed that I was prowling 
round and round his room, looking for a key which I could 
not find. 


2I8 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE CONSPIRATOR. 


HE Polish question was not forgotten. In truth, it was 



-L not easy altogether to forget it. The burning fervour 
of Wassielewski, his glorious indifference to the probabilities 
of death, his scorn of failure provided the sacred fire was 
kept burning, all this could uot but impress the imagination. 
When I thought of them my heart burned within me, and it 
seemed for the time a light thing to join my countrymen, 
and march with them to certain death, if only to show the 
world that Poland was living yet. Celia thought this kind of 
patriotism, this carrying on of a vendetta from father to son, 
was unworthy. But I never could get her to see the beauty 
of war, even in the balmy days of Crimean victory. 

I laid my case before her, as much as I knew of it, then 
but little — the loss of my inheritance, the death of my father, 
my long line of brave progenitors, the obligations of a name. 

She could not be persuaded. 

You are not a soldier, Laddy,” she said. You are a 
musician and an artist. It is not for you to go fighting. 
And think of all the misery that you and I have seen. Why 
does not every man resolve that he for one will not fight 
unless he has to defend himself? Be one of the peacemakers. 
After all, you foolish boy, it is not you that the IJussians 
have injured, and you have grown up an Englishman. Why, 
you cannot even speak your own language.” 

‘‘Wassielewski will be my interpreter.” 

“Poor old Wassielewski! He will run against the first 
Russian bayonet he meets, and be killed at the very be- 
ginning.” 

That was, indeed, just what the old man would do. He 
came to see me one day, with eyes full of fervour, and a voice 
trembling with excitement. 

“ Come out, Ladislas, I have much to say to you.” 

He took me into St. Faith’s Square, a large irregular 
place, with the red brick church at one end. He dragged 


THE CONSPIKATOR. 


219 


out of his pocket a pile of papers and letters tied round with 
ribbon. It struck me disagreeably that Herr Eaumer was 
walking on the other side of the Square. 

‘‘ They are all with us/’ he whispered. See, here are the 
men from Exeter, here are the London men, here are the 
Paris men ; we have emissaries in Vienna and in Eome; for 
the present, the country is kept quiet, no suspicions are 
awakened yet ; no movement of Eussian troops has been 
made towards Poland ; we shall strike a desperate blow this 
time.” 

I mechanically took the papers which he gave me to read. 
There were lists of names, copies of compromising letters, 
mysterious notes dated Paris, Vienna, Eome. This old 
enthusiast was a sort of Head Centre, or, at least, a confi- 
dential and trusted agent of a wide-spread conspiracy. My 
heart sank when I saw my own name at the head of a long 
list. 

The plan of the campaign is being considered. I have 
sent in my ideas. They are, after making a feint in Warsaw, 
to ” 

We will not follow the conspirator s plans through all its 
details. I thought five years later, when the rising of 1863 
took place, of Wassielewski’s projected campaign, and for 
my country’s sake regretted that they had not been adopted. 

In a very short time — it may be to-morrow — it may be 
in six months — we shall receive our orders to move.” 

‘‘ And am I to see no one first — to obey orders blindly ? ” 

“ Not blindly, Ladislas Pulaski. I shall be with you.” 

I suppose there was something of uncertainty in my face, 
for he quickly added : 

You shall see some of our people before you go. Ladislas, 
your heart is not yet wholly with us. I have seen that all 
along. It is my fault. I ought to have educated you from 
the beginning into hatred of the Muscovite. There ought to 
have been no single day in which you should not have recited 
the catechism of Poland’s wrongs. My fault — mine.” 

“Forgive me, Wassielewski.” 

“But another day of retribution is coming. There will 


220 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR 


be another massacre of Polish patriots to rouse Poland out 
of her sleep, and fill the hearts of Polish women with 
renewed hatred, you and I shall be among the slain, and 
yet you do not rejoice.’’ 

He looked forward to his own death with exultation, much 
as a Christian martyr brought before Nero may have looked 
to the cross or the stake, with a fiery fervour of a confessor 
who glorifies the faith. And he lamented that I, fifty years 
younger than himself, with no personal memories of struggle 
and of wrong, could not rise to his level of self-sacrifice. 

I do not rejoice, Wassielewski. I have no wish, not the 
slightest, to be killed, even for Poland.” 

He groaned. 

You must wish. You must go with me as I go, ready to 
be killed — because we shall not succeed this time — for the 
cause. You must feel as I feel. The others think we shall 
not fail; they know nothing; those of us who have better 
information know that Russia is too strong. I want to 
take you with me knowing all. I pray, night and morning, 
that you may come to me of your own accord, saying, 
‘ Son of Roman Pulaski and the Lady Claudia, I belong to 
Poland.’ ” 

I was deeply moved by the old man’s eagerness. 

‘‘What can I say, Wassielewski? When I am with you 
my spirit leaps up at your words. Helpless hunchback as I 
am, I am ready to go with you and do what you command. 
Away from you, my patriotism is feeble, and I care little 
for Poland. Forgive me, but I tell you the simple 
truth.” 

“ There is one thing I have never told you. I meant to 
keep it till I landed you on the sacred soil of Poland. But 
I will tell you now. No ; not now. I must go home and 
think before I can tell you that. Come to me to-morrow at 
this time, to my room, where you and I can talk alone. You 
will need to be alone with me when you hear all, Ladislas 
Pulaski — with that knowledge ringing in your brain, the 
scales will fall from your eyes and you shall see.” 

What was he to tell me ? Were there not horrors enough 


THE CONSPIRATOR. 


221 


that I had heard already ; men beaten to death ; men tortured 
by the knout ; men sent by thousands in exile ; women in- 
sulted ; brides robbed of their bridegrooms, mothers of their 
sons ; was there one single outrage in the long list of possible 
crimes that had not been committed in that dark story of 
Polish revolt and Russian repression ? Needs must, but war 
brings misery. The annals of the world are red with tears 
of blood ; “ woe to the conquered ” is the inevitable law ; but 
such woe, such tears, such misery, as fell upon Poland by 
the will of the Czar are surely unequalled since the days 
when a conquered people all fell by the sword, or were led 
away to a hopeless servitude. What more had Wassielewski 
to tell me ? 

By some strange irony I always met Herr Eaumer after 
Wassielewski had been with me. That same evening, as 
I came home from a walk with Celia, I was saluted by 
him. He looked down upon me with his white shaggy eye- 
brows and his green spectacles, as if half in pity, half in 
contempt. In his presence I felt a very small conspirator 
indeed. 

‘‘ I saw you this morning,” he said, ‘^walking and talking 
with your old rebel, Wassielewski. Brave old man ! Ener- 
getic old man ! Useful to his friends. And oh ! how useful 
to his country ! ” 

Nothing could surpass the intense scorn in his voice. 

“ He is getting up another little rebellion, I gather from 
certain Cracow papers. At least, there are indications of 
another rising, and it is not likely that Wassielewski will 
be out of it. Such a chance does not come often.” 

You mean such a chance for Poland?” 

No — I mean for a conspirator. You do not understand 
—how can you ? — the charm of rebellion. Once a rebel — 
always a rebel. It is like acting. Those who have faced the 
footlights once are always wanting to go on again. Wassie- 
lewski is seventy years of age, and for sixty, or thereabouts, 
has been conspiring. It would have been a good thing for 
Poland had some one knocked him on the head when he first 
began. And a good thing for you.” 


222 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUE. 


Why for me ? ” 

Because Roman Pulaski would still be living and still 
be a great proprietor in Poland ; because you would have 
been, as he was, a friend and proUg4 of the Imperial 
Court.” 

How do you know so much about me ? ” 

He laughed. 

‘‘I have read current history. I read and I remember. 
And I know the story of Roman Pulaski. It was Wassie- 
lewski who took your father from his quiet chateau, and 
launched him on the stormy waters of rebellion. Thank him, 
then, not Russia, for all your misfortunes. You ought to be 
very grateful to that old man.” 

This was a new view of the case, and, for the moment, a 
staggerer. 

‘‘That is for the past, Ladislas Pulaski. Now for the 
future.” 

“ What of the future ? ” 

“ It is a Paradise of Fools. In the Future, Poland will be 
restored ; there will be no more wars ; nationalities will not 
be repressed in the Future ” 

“ At all events, it is better to believe in the Future than in 
the Present.” 

“ You think so ? That is because you are young. I 
believe in the Present because I am old. I love the Present, 
and work for it. When I am dead people may say of me 
what they like, and may do what they like. That is their 
own business. I eat well ; I drink good wine ; I read French 
novels ; I smoke excellent tobacco : what more can the Future 
give me ? Your friend Wassielewski fought once for the 
Future. He gets tenpence a day for his reward ; he fiddles 
for sailors ; he conspires for Poland ; he will die in some 
obscure field leading peasants armed with scythes against 
Russian troops armed with rifies.” 

“ I would rather be Wassielewski than ” 

“ Than I ? Ca va sans dire. You are young,” he laughed, 
and showed his white teeth. “ Meantime, remember what I 
told you. Where there are three conspirators there is one 


THE CONSPIKATOR. 


223 


traitor. Have nothing to do with them ; refuse to be 
murdered for Poland ; go on with your music-lessons — any- 
thing you like, but do not join conspiracies.” 

He seemed to know everything, this man. For the first 
time a strange thought crossed my brain. Could he have 
received intelligence of the intended rising? 

I mean well by you, Ladislas Pulaski, although you sus- 
pect me, and do not love me. That does not matter. I wish 
to see you kept out of the fatal business which killed your 
father. 

Crack-brained idiots ! ” he ejaculated. “ There is in the 
Kremlin a box. In the box is a most valuable document, 
shown to strangers as a curiosity. It is the Constitution of 
Poland. Refiect upon that fact. Again, there is outside 
Cracow a mound, erected in immortal memory of Kosciusko. 
It is a mound so high that it dominates the town. Therefore 
the Austrians have turned it into a fort by which, if neces- 
sary, to crush the town. That is another inspiriting fact for 
a Pole to consider.” 

It is like the Austrians.” 

Doubtless. Otherwise they would not have built their 
fort. You would have preferred seeing them sympathise with 
the fallen hero. England and France have made of Poland a 
beautiful theme for the most exalted sentiments and speeches. 
But they do not fight for Poland. Voltaire, who did not 
share in the general enthusiasm, even wrote a burlesque 
poem on the Poles. Then England put clauses in the Treaty 
of 1815 to ensure the government of the country by her 
Constitution. When Nicholas laughed at the clauses and 
tore up the treaty, England and France did not fight. Who 
keeps treaties when he is strong enough to break them ? 
Who goes to war for a broken treaty when he is not strong 
enough ? What does the new Czar say to the Poles ? ‘ No 

dreams, gentlemen.’ It is a dream to believe that Poland is 
not abandoned. It is a dream that a few madmen can get 
up a successful rebellion. Finis Polonice!'' 

He inhaled a tremendous volume of smoke, and sent it up 
in the air in a thick cloud. 


224 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


Look There goes the liberty of Poland. Say I well, 

Ladislas Pulaski ? ” 

No,’* I replied bluntly. 

“Did you ever hear what a great Pole said when they 
wanted him to conspire ? ‘ Mourir pour la patrie ? Oitiy 

je comprend cela; mais y vivre? Jamais,^ And he did 
neither.” 

I was filled with strange forebodings ; with that feeling of 
expectancy which sometimes comes over one at moments when 
there seems impending the stroke of Fate ; I could not rest ; 
wild dreams crossed my brain. Nor was Celia happier. We 
wandered backwards and forwards in the leafy and shady 
retreat, restless and unhappy. The great elms about us 
were bright with their early foliage of sweet young June ; 
the birds were flying about among the branches where they 
were never disturbed ; the thrush with his low and cheerful 
note, surely the most contented among birds ; the blackbird 
with his carol, a bird of sanguine temperament ; the blue tit, 
the robin, the chaffinch — we knew every one of them by 
sight because we saw them every day. And the meadows 
at the foot of the walls were bright with golden cups. 

“ How can I give it up, Ois ? ” I asked. 

She answered with her sweet sad smile. We had both 
been brooding in silence. 

“I am selfish,” she said. “I think of nothing but my 
own troubles. You must not give it up, Laddy. You 
belong here, to the Captain, and to me. You must not go 
out among strangers.” 

I shook my head. 

“ Wassielewski says I must. It would be hard to tear 
myself away, Cis — not to talk to you ever agaiu, to see you 
no more.” 

“ Why no more, Laddy ? ” 

“ I am to give more than my presence to the revolt, Cis. 
I am to give what Wassielewski gives — my life.” 

Just then we saw him marching along the ramparts 
towards us. His eyes were upon us, but he saw nothing. 
He came nearer and nearer, but he took no notice ; he swung 


THE CONSPIEATOR. 


225 


his arms violently to and fro ; his long white hair streamed 
behind him in the wind ; he carried his black felt hat in one 
hand ; he halted when he came to the wall of the bastion, 
leaned for a moment upon the rampart, gazing fixedly out 
upon the bright waters of the harbour. What did he see 
there ? Then he turned and faced us, but spoke as if he saw 
us not. 

‘‘ The time is at hand,” he murmured, in the low tones of 
a prophet. The wolves and the ravens may gather in the 
woods and wait for the dead. The mothers shall array their 
sons — the wives shall buckle the sword for their husbands, 
the daughters for their lovers ; once in every generation the 
sacrifice of the bravest and noblest, till the times comes ; till 
then the best must die.” 

Not Ladislas,” cried Celia, throwing herself in front of 
me. Take any one else, take whom you please to be mur- 
dered. But you shall not take my brother Ladislas.” 

He made no answer ; I suppose he did not hear. Presently 
he stepped lightly from the breastwork, and walked slowly 
away, still waving his arms in a sort of triumph. 

“ He is mad, Laddy,” Celia whispered. ‘‘ You must not 
trust your fate to a madman.” 

He is only mad sometimes, Cis. It is when he thinks 
too much about the past.” 

‘‘Laddy, if you go away and leave me; if Leonard— but 
that is impossible. God will be good to us — yet. I could 
not bear my life without you.” 

Tell me, Cis dear, has he pressed for an answer ? ” 

She shook her head. 

It is not that,” she said. He is patient. But it is my 
father. Do not put my thoughts into words, Laddy. They 
are too dreadful. And my mother sees nothing.” 


226 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

WASSIELEWSKl’S SECRET. 

T he PolisR newspapers at one time, and until ttey were 
ordered to desist, used to print the words Past and 
Future in very big capitals, while they spoke of the present 
in the smallest possible type. That was Wassielewski’s 
method. The Past was radiant with Polish glory and Polish 
struggles set in a black background of Russian atrocities. 
Like one of the new-fashioned Arrangements in Brown,” the 
details were smudged. The Future, after a good deal more 
of fighting and bloodshed, was also to be a chronicle of great 
glory. As for the present, it did not exist, it was a dream. 

For himself, he was almost the last of the Poles whom I 
remembered as a child in the old black barrack. The barrack 
itself was gone, and the Poles dispersed. Those who were 
left lived about the town singly. Wassielewski alone among 
them still nourished thoughts of revenge and patriotism. 
He was certainly the only man of all the exiled Poles capable 
of giving life to the cause in a hopeless effort, where the only 
object was to keep alive the spark of rebellion. He also 
never flagged or lost heart, because he knew what he had to 
give, and he knew what he was going to get. I was accus- 
tomed to his fanaticism. If he met me when I was a child, 
he was wont to say, parenthetically, Ladislas, Poland is not 
dead, but sleeping,” and then pass on without waiting for an 
answer. He was like a bird which has but one tune ; his 
one idea was the resuscitation of his country. Sometimes 
he would stop me in the street, and take off his hat, standing 
like a prophet of Israel with his deep-set eyes, his long white 
locks, and his passionate look, keeping me beside him while 
he whispered in earnest tones, ‘‘Listen, Ladislas Pulaski, 
there is a stir in her limbs. She will spring to her feet 
again, and call upon her children to arise and fight. Then 
let all the Poles scattered over the broad face of the earth, 
the Poles of Gallicia, the Poles of the Kingdom, join together. 
We are the children of those who fought with Kosciusko, 


WASSIELEWSKI’S SECRET. 


227 


and we are the grandchildren of those who followed Sobieski. 
If we die, the tradition of hate will be preserved. Let us 
die, if Heaven so will it.” 

I was therefore trained in the traditional hatred of Russia, 
almost as much as if I had been brought up in Warsaw 
among those Polish ladies who go in mourning all their days, 
and refuse to dance or have any joy. But my own feeling 
was of the passive kind, which is not fertile in action. By 
temperament as well as physique I was inclined to the contem- 
plative life ; if I regarded the Muscovite with patriotic hatred, 
I was by no means prepared to leave my own ease, and put 
on the armour of a soldier. Besides, to all intents I was an 
Englishman, with English ideas, English prejudices ; and the 
Poles were foreigners to me, although I was of Polish blood, 
and — I was a cripple. 

Wassielewski saw with pity that his most fiery denuncia- 
tions, his most highly-coloured narratives of blood, failed to 
rouse me to the level of his own enthusiasm, and therefore 
the old conspirator had recourse to his last and most desperate 
measure. If that failed I was hopeless. He told me the 
secret that had been religiously kept from me by the Captain, 
Mr. Broughton, and the few who knew it — the tragedy ot 
my birth. 

I wish he had not told me ; I ought to have been spared 
the bitter knowledge ; it was with kindness that it had been 
kept from me. For the story fired my blood, and maddened 
me for a while with the thirst of vengeance. 

It was about four o’clock one afternoon — a week before 
Leonard’s return, that I went to Wassielewski’s lodgings — at 
his own request. I went unwillingly, because it pained me 
to see him so eager, and to feel myself so lukewarm over 
the wrongs of my country ; but I went. 

His one room was furnished with a narrow bed, a chair, a 
table, and a music-stand. A crucifix was hanging on the 
wall — Wassielewski was a Catholic — a sword hung below it ; 
at the head of the bed was a portrait in water-colours, which 
I had never seen before, of a young lady, dressed in the 
fashion of the Thirties. She had a sweet, calm face, and her 


228 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR 


eyes, which fell upon me when I entered the room, seemed 
to follow me about. They were large eyes, full of thought 
and love. 

‘‘ That is your mother, Ladislas Pulaski,” said the old 
man slowly. Your sainted mother, one of the martyrs of 
Poland. Claudia, wife of Roman Pulaski.” 

My mother ! I, who never knew a mother, and hardly 
ever gave her memory one filial thought. A strange yearn- 
ing came over me as I gazed at the face, and saw it blurred 
through the tears that crowded in my eye. 

My mother ! Wassielewski, why have you never shown 
this to me before ? ” 

‘‘ Because I waited for the moment to come when I could 
give you her portrait, tell you her story, and send you forth 
to kill Russians in revenge. Sit down, poor boy. I have 
much to say, and nothing that is not sad.” 

I sat down with strange forebodings. But I took the 
portrait of my mother from the wall. 

You will give this to me, Wassielewski ? ” 

When I die, or when we go together to Poland.” 

Ah ! The tender sweetness of the face ; the kind face ; 
the noble face. Ah ! the good and true eyes that saw her 
son after so many years ; so bright, and yet so sad. For 
they had the sadness which seems to lie in the eyes of all 
whom death takes young. Death ! How did my mother 
die ? And while I looked I felt that the poor old man who 
loved her so much — else he could not have been so careful 
for me — was looking with me in her face, and dropping tears 
upon my head. 

Do not tell me, Wassielewski — not now — if it pains you 
so much.” 

That will pain you more,’* he groaned. Day and night 
for twenty years it has been ever before my eyes. I was 
only her humble friend and servant. You are her son. 
How shall I tell you the shameful story. 

Sit so, Ladislas Pulaski, with your eyes upon the face 
of your dead mother — perhaps she will smile upon you as 
she does upon me sometimes in moonlight nights when I lie 


WASSIELEWSKI’S SECEET. 


229 

awake and listen for the call from Poland. So — so — while I 
try to tell you how she died and how your father died.” 

His voice was calm and steady, but his eyes were wild. I 
looked at him no more, but kept my eyes upon the picture, 
awed and expectant. 

He took his violin from the case, and played a few bars 
walking up and down the room. 

That is a Polish waltz. We used to dance a great deal 
in Poland before 1830. We were Russian subjects, it is true, 
but we were happier than our brothers who were under 
Prussia. Some of us were young, too — not I. I am seventy- 
five now, and I am talking of events which took place only 
five-and-twenty years ago. But I was not too old to join in 
the dances of the people. And I was happy in my steward- 
ship of the Lady Claudia. She was an only child, like your 
father, Roman Pulaski, and I was the steward of her father, 
and had special charge of the young lady. There is a girl 
in this place ; I often see you with her.” 

‘‘ Celia Tyrrell ? ” 

“Yes — perhaps. She has the eyes of your mother and 

her sweet face. I think she must be good, like her. 

“ Lady Claudia was not proud. We went about together, 
her father and she and I, to all the peasants festivals. I 
was but a peasant born, but she, it is true — oh ! she was a 
great lady. When we had a wedding it lasted a week, and 
we danced all night ; we wore our national dress ; we sang 
our national songs — this was one of them.” 

He played a quaint delightful air, full of sweetness and 
character. 

“We ate our higos and cholodiec ; we laughed and joked. 
And with the Muscovites we were friends. You would have 
been a happy child, Ladislas Pulaski, could you have been 
brought up among your own people, and learned their 
customs — such as they were. Now, it is all changed. TJ10 
national costume is forbidden; we may not sing the Polish 
hymns — Listen to one. Ah! you cannot understand the 
words.” 

He played a hymn with soft and melancholy cadences, 


230 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


crooning rather than singing the words which I could not, 
as he said, understand. 

‘‘We dance no longer; even the young Polish girls, who 
loved dancing more than any girls in the world, dance no 
more; we go in mourning all our days; even the young 
Polish girls, whose dress was so gay and bright, wear black 
all their lives ; we laugh no more, but sit with weeping eyes ; 
we go to church, not to pray for good harvests and joy, but 
for the hour of revenge.” 

He paused a moment. 

“ That is what you know already. Up to the age of nine- 
teen, my young lady was as happy as the day is long. She 
w^as as happy as God ever allowed any human being to be. 
For when she was eighteen she was married — to your father. 

“ Roman Pulaski was worthy of her — he, alone among 
men. He was of a good descent ; he was as rich, he was as 
handsome, he was as strong and brave as she was true and 
good. They were married, and you were born — a strong and 
straight-backed boy — a true Pulaski, with curly brown hair, 
and plenty of it, when you were but a little baby. And who 
so happy as your mother ? All day long she held you in her 
arms ; all day and all night ; it made the tears come into my 
eyes only to see how pleased and happy she was with her 
child. 

“ That lasted two years. Then came the insurrection. Of 
course your father joined it. How could he keep out of it ? 
And the Lady Claudia wove silk banners, and brought her 
jewels to buy arms, and gave all she had to the brave rebels. 

“ One day, after three months of fighting, I came back — 
alone. Your father had disappeared ; our men were all killed; 
and the Russians were marching upon the castle to destroy 
it. I remembered how, once, they set fire to a house full of 
Poles, and killed all who tried to escape. So I hurried your 
mother away ; we carried the child between us, and escaped 
into the woods, where we wandered backwards and forwards 
through the bitter cold night, and watched at nightfall the 
red glow in the sky, which marked our burning castle. So 
you no longer had a house, you and the Lady Claudia. 


WASSlELEWSlCl S SECRET. 


^31 


In the inorning, finding that the Cossacks were gone, I 
took her home to our village. It was a place full of women 
and children; not a man left in it; only a few boys of ten 
and old men of seventy; but because there were no men, I 
thought she would be safe. She was brave — always brave — 
and in her pale face there was no thought of repentance. 
They weighed the cost, and joined the losing side. Her 
husband gone — perhaps dead ; her house destroyed ; nothing 
left in the world but her year old child. Yet she never 
lamented. Only the second day, she sent me away. ‘ Old 
friend,’ she said, ^go — and, if you can, bring me news ot 
Roman Pulaski. If he is dead we will mourn for him as 
those who mourn for the dead in Christ.’ 

I left her — in safety, as I thought — I crept cautiously 
through the woods, from village to village, and asked of the 
women and old men in each place for news. For a time I 
could learn nothing, but one day I found a newspaper, and 
read that Roman Pulaski was not dead but a prisoner. 

It would have been better for him had he died in battle. 
You have heard — I have told you over and over again — how 
the Czar Nicholas hated the very name of Pole ; how there 
was no cruelty practised by his officers, no severity so great 
towards the Poles that it should displease him. But the 
case of one who stood so high as your father was too important 
to be decided upon even by the Archduke Constantine’s 
favourite. General Kuruta. 

Roman Pulaski had been a favourite in the St. Peters- 
burg Court ; he had attracted the notice of the Empress, who 
hoped to attach him to the Russian cause; his rebellion 
incensed the Czar moie than the defection of all the other 
Poles put together. Imagine, therefore, his satisfaction at 
having his enemy in his own power. At first he ordered 
that the prisoner should be shot. This order was imme- 
diately afterwards commuted, as he called it, to hard labour 
in the mines of Siberia for life, which was called the Czar’s 
clemency. 

Even the Russians were appalled at such a sentence, which 
condemned a gentleman to the lowest degradation of com- 


23 ^ 


BY CELIA'S ABBOUR. 


panionship witli criminals. They drew up a petition ; It was 
represented that the Count Roman Pulaski was young and 
hotheaded ; they said he had been drawn into the rebellion 
by disaffected advisers and by misrepresentations. The Czar 
refused to receive the petition. Then the Empress herself, 
his own wife, threw herself on her knees at his feet and 
implored mercy. 

‘ You ask mercy for a Pole,’ he cried. ‘ Then this is what 
you shall get for him.’ He took the paper containing the 
sentence, and added to it in his own handwriting, ‘ And the 
prisoner shall walk the whole way.’ ” 

Walk? — walk the whole way from Warsaw to Siberia?” 

Walk. Think of it quietly if you can, for a while. Try 
to understand something of what it means. To be one of a 
gang of murderers and common thieves, because they did not 
allow him to perform his journey with brother Poles; to step 
side by side, manacled together at the wrist, with one of the 
worst of these criminals ; to sleep with him at night on a 
sloping bench ; to eat and drink with him ; never to be 
separated from him ; to be driven along the never-ending 
road by Cossacks armed with whips; to endure every in- 
dignity of blows and curses ; to have no rest by day, no 
repose by night ; to eat the vilest and commonest food; to 
spend the winter — it was in the winter that he started — ■ 
pacing for ever along the v hite and frozen snow ; to be on 
the road when spring returned ; to be still walking always 
with the thieves and murderers, in the glaring summer. 

“ Take a map, measure the distance from Warsaw to 
Moscow, from Moscow to Astrakhan, from Astrakhan to 
Tobolski, and thence to the mines. You will say to yourself, 
fifteen miles a day ; that makes — how many months of walk- 
ing ? Left behind him a wife, young and beautiful as the 
day ; a boy not old enough yet to do more than look in his 
father’s face, and cry, ^ Papa — Wassielewski ! ’ 

‘‘Wife and boy gone — happiness gone for ever— no hope 
— before him the long road — with the horrible daily and 
nightly companions, and after the road ? Perhaps after the 
road the worst part of the sentence ; for in the road there is 


WASSIELEWSKI’S secret. 


^33 

change, in the mines none ; day after day the same work ; 
day after day the same hopeless toil ; day after day the same 
gloom ; day after day the same wretched fellow-prisoners ; the 
same faces ; the death in life. 

‘‘ They used to go mad^ some of them ; they used to commit 
suicide ; some would murder a soldier or a gaoler for the 
mere excitement of being flogged to death. Some tried to 
run away. It was fortunate for those who made their escape 
in winter, because when night fell they lay down in the snow 
• — out on the free white snow, which covered them up and 
hid them after the cold winter wind had fanned them to 
sleep, and when they were found in the spring they were 
dead corpses covered over with tall grasses and pitiful 
flowers. Those who neither went mad, nor were knouted, nor 
were frozen to death, nor committed suicide, dropped away 
and died day by day, like your father, and for the last few 
months of their lives, God, more merciful than the Czar, made 
them stupid.” 

Wassielewski stopped. I looked up at him with beating 
heart and flashing eyes. His own eyes, deep-set and stern, 
were glowing with the intensity of his wrath, and the red 
gash on his cheek was a long white line. 

“ Go on, Wassielewski,” 1 cried, tell me more.” 

“ I have thought upon that journey,” he continued in a 
calm voice, “ till I seem to ^aow it every step. And he was 
so tall, so brave, so handsome. 

News came, later on — not for a long time — about him. 
More than half the convicts died upon the road ; the man to 
whom he was manacled threw himself down upon the road 
one day, and refused to move another step ; they flogged him 
till he could not have walked if he had tried ; but he still 
refused, and then they flogged him again until he died. That 
was part of the Czar’s clemency. Tour father was one of the 
few who survived the journey, and reached Siberia in safety. 
He sent home by a sure hand a little wooden cross, on which 
he had carved — the names of Claudia his wife, and Ladislas 
his boy.” 

“ Stop — stop ! Wassielewski, I cannot bear it.” 


234 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


I stall not stop,” lie replied, you must bear tbis, and 
more. There is worse to hear. Do you think it is for nothing 
that I tell you all these things ? The cross was to show his 
wife that he was alive, and that he still thought of them. 
But when it arrived his wife was dead, and the child was in 
exile. The cross,” — he opened a little cabinet which stood 
upon a chest of drawers — “the cross is here. I have kept it 
for you.” 

It was a roughly-carved cross, eighteen inches long, of a 
dark-grained wood, a Latin cross. On the longer limb was 
carved in letters rude, but deeply cut in the wood, “ Roman 
to Claudia,” and on the transverse limb the single word, 
“ Ladislas.” 

“ See, from his grave your father calls you.” 

“ From his grave ? ” 

“He died, like all the prisoners in the mines, of hard 
work, of despair, of misery, and neglect. He could write no 
letters, he could receive none ; he had no longer anything to 
hope for in this world. Roman Pulaski died. Grey, deaf, 
and blind, my poor old master died. He was not thirty 
years of age. 

“ When he was dead, lying news was published in the 
papers by the command of Nicholas. They said that he had 
been released from the mines, that he had voluntarily entered 
as a private soldier in a Caucasian regiment, that he had 
fallen in action. Lies ! Lies ! No one believed them. As 
if Roman Pulaski would not have written to Poland for news 
of his wife and son; as if he would not have flown along the 
road as soon as he obtained his liberty, to learn if they were 
dead or living. No! In the darkest and deepest mine, with 
the foulest thieves of a Muscovite crowd, Roman Pulaski 
lived out his wretched years, and died his wretched death. 
And you are his son. 

“ Before you go home, remember this : he died for Poland; 
his death is not forgotten ; for fifty generations, if need be, 
the story shall be told of the Czar’s revenge.” 

He paused for a moment. 


THE Massacre of the innocents. 


^35 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS. 

T HAVE more to tell you,” he went on, wiping the beads 

JL from his brow wearily. More to tell you, more that 
I cannot tell without the bitterest pain, and that will sadden 
all your after years. But you must learn it, you must learn 
it, before you become a true child of Poland.” 

He leant over me and kissed my head. 

Poor boy ! I thought at one time that you might be 
spared. The good Captain said to me when you went away 
to live with him, ‘Let him not know, Wassielewski ; let 
him never know.’ I said, ‘ He shall never know, Captain ; 
no one shall tell him : — unless his country ask for him. 
Then he shall know, because the knowledge will fire the 
blood, and make him fight like ten men. We are all like 
ten men when we rise to fight the Muscovite.’ So I promised 
and I prayed of a night to the Lady Claudia, who is now a 
saint in Heaven, and hears what sinners ask, that she would 
guard her son from harm. ‘Because,’ I said on my knees, 
‘ he is not a strong man like your husband or your servant ; 
he is afilicted, he is feeble, he is a boy of peace and fond of 
music, and he has made good friends.’ I knelt by the bed, 
and I looked on that face. 

“ The face changed as I prayed, and sometimes, by candle- 
light, or by moonlight, I could see the eyes of my mistress 
shining upon me, or see her lips move as if to speak or to 
smile. And always happy. Ladislas, happy are those who 
forgive.” 

“ But we cannot forgive,” I said. 

“Never, boy, never. We are God’s instruments of wrath. 
And now the time has come, and Poland asks for you. So 
I mtcsl tell you, Ladislas,” he added pitifully, “ I must tell 
yon, in addition, how your mother died. You will think 
over the story every day for the rest of your life. And you 
will understand, henceforth, how Russia may become the 
Protector of Christians — out of her own country. 


236 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUB. 


It happened while I was away, looking for certain news 
of your father. I left her in safety, as I thought, among the 
women and children. Even I did not know how far the 
Czar could carry his revenge. Not even the little children 
were safe. An order came from St. Petersburg that all 
orphan Polish children — all those whose fathers had fallen 
in the insurrection — all who were a burden to the State — 
should be carried away and brought up in military schools. 
That was a master-stroke. The little Poles were to become 
Eussians, to fight their brothers. 

‘‘You were not an orphan, nor a burden on the State; 
you did not fall within that law. It was by the great, by 
the divine clemency of the Czar that that ukase was issued, 
to save the children whom every Polish household would 
have welcomed, to relieve the State of a burden which did 
not exist. But the order did not affect you, and if I had 
known of it I should not have been disturbed. You were 
safe, safe with your mother, and she was safe among her own 
people, the women who knew her and loved her. 

“ As the order was issued it had to be carried out, and the 
soldiers were sent to find orphan children, begging their 
bread, and a burden on the State. But there were none: 
yet the order must be obeyed. So they began to carry off 
all the children they could find, whether they were orphans 
or not, whether their mothers wept and shrieked, or whether 
they sat silent, struck with the mad stupor of a misfortune 
greater than they could bear. 

“ When Herod slew the infants in Bethlehem, there were 
some thirty killed. When Nicholas murdered the innocents 
in Poland, there were thousands. Perhaps, when one crime 
becomes as well known as the other, that of the Czar will 
take its proper rank. 

“ In the afternoon, when the day was sinking, there came 
clattering up to the village where your mother had taken 
refuge a long cavalcade of carts, horses, and cavalry. In the 
carts were infants; it was a day of winter, and the snow 
was lying over the fields and in the branches of the pines. 
The carts were covered, it is true, and within them the 


THE MASSAGES OF THE INNOCEKTS. 


^37 


children cried and moaned, huddled together against each 
other for warmth ; some mere infants in arms ; some five or 
six years of age, who carried the smaller ones ; some little 
toddling things of two. They had spread rough blankets 
on the fioors of the carts, but still the helpless babes were 
cold. And their only nurses were the soldiers, who had 
small pity. 

The women of the village came out crying over the poor 
children, bringing them bread and milk. With them they 
carried their own. They had better have stayed indoors ; 
better still have fied into the woods, and hidden there till 
the Cossacks went away. For presently, the soldiers began 
picking up the children of the village and tossing them, 
too, into their carts. Among them, led by an older child, 

wrapped in fnrs, was a little boy of two years old ^you, 

Ladislas Pulaski. 

“ You were straight-backed then, poor boy ; straight and 
comely, like your father 

When they rode away, the carts lumbering along the 
roads, the children crying, the soldiers swearing, they were 
followed by a stream of women, who shrieked and cried, and 
first among them all ran and cried your mother — the Lady 
Claudia. Yes — she was brave when her beautiful home was 
burned with all the sweet things she had grown up amongst; 
but when she saw the boy torn from her, she became, they 
told me, like a mad woman. They were all mad women. 

‘‘It was twenty-four hours later when I returned and 
heard what had happened. The carts had all that much 
start of me ; also I had to be careful, because near the 
villages I might be recognised and arrested. I followed on 
the high-road when I could — through forests when I could 

find a faithful guide — anyhow so that I followed. After 

two days of pursuit, I found — courage, Ladislas — courage, 
boy — so — drink this water — lie down for a moment — sob 
and cry — it will do you good as it did me, when I found her 
— the tale is almost told. 

“ I found her lying cold and dead in the road. She was 
bare-headed, and her long hair lay blown about her beautiful 


BY CELIA'S aBBOUB. 


53 § 

head ; her face was looking with its pale cold cheeks and 
closed eyes — looking still along the road in the direction of 
the carts — one arm was bent under her, one hand upon her 
heart; one lay extended, the fingers clutched in the snow, 
as if she would drag herself along the way by which she 
could no longer creep ; her shoes had fallen from her feet, 
she was frozen ; — in the night she had fallen, and, too weak 
to rise, must have died in the painless sleep that swiftly 
closes the eyes of those who lie down in our winter snow. I 
lifted her and bore her to the edge of the forest, where, 
because I could not dig her a grave, I made a hole in the 
snow, and covered her over with branches to keep off the 
wolves. I knelt by her dead form and called Heaven to 
witness that such revenge as I could work upon the people 
who had killed her I would work — it is a vow which I have 
renewed from day to day ; and after many years, the time 
has come at last. It always comes to those who have faith 
and patience. 

When I had buried your mother, I hurried along the 
road still in pursuit of the train of children. These trains 
do not move quickly, and I knew that I should come up 
with it — sooner or later. The roads were very still and 
quiet ; it was not only the snow that lay on the earth, but 
the dread and terror of the Cossacks. Death was in the air ; 
in the woods lay the bodies of the men : in the villages lay the 
women weeping ; on the cold roads lumbered the long lines ot 
kibitkas that carried away the children. Somewhere on that 
road marched the train of convicts manacled wrist to wrist, 
your father among them. 

Presently — it may have been a day, it may have been an 
hour, after I left your dead mother — I heard far off the dull 
dead sound of the carts, the cracking of whips, and the curses 
of the drivers. Then I stopped to think. If they saw me 
I should be shot, and that would be of no use to any one. 
Now, if I lost sight altogether of the train, how could I help 
you, who were in it ? 

‘‘ Walking and running, I kept up close behind the train ; 
as the night fell again, I could get so close as to hear the 


THE MASSACEE OF THE INNOCENTS. 


239 


wailing of the children, who cried for hunger and for cold. 
And Providence befriended us ; for while I went along the 
road, I saw something move in the moonlight, and heard a 
faint cry. Ladislas, it was you. You had fallen from the 
cart, and they left you there to die. Perhaps they did not 
see you. Five minutes more, and you would have died, like 
your mother, of that fatal sleep of frost. 

There is nothing more to tell 1 had a long and 

weary journey from village to village before I reached the 
Austrian frontier, and found a friend who would help us over 
mountains and by forests to Switzerland. All Europe was 
full of our sufferings, and we made friends wherever we 
went ; there were societies called ^ Friends of Poland,’ who 
helped us with money and work ; had they given us soldiers 
and arms we should have asked no other help — we passed 
from Switzerland to France, and from France we came to 
England. Always the same kindness from the people ; the 
same indignation ; and the same help. I wonder, now, if 
they have forgotten the cause of Poland: perhaps, because 
it is twenty years ago. 

Well, as the days passed on, I noticed something. At 
first it was not much, but as the time went on, I found that 
your back was round, and that you were — poor boy — de- 
formed. It was done by the fall from the cart. Eemember, 
Ladislas, that you owe that, as well as everything else — to 
the Czar. When you look in the glass, say to yourself, 

‘ But for them I should be well and straight like my father : ’ 
when you pass a rich man’s house you may say, ‘ My house 
stood among woods fairer than these, with more splendid 
gardens; the Czar burnt it, and took my broad lands.’ 
When you stand upon the ramparts and see the lines of 
convicts, working, silent, in single file, think of your father 
dying slowly in the Siberian mines — and every evening and 
every morning, look at the face of your mother and think of 
her rushing along the frozen roads, catching at the hands of 
the soldiers, crying and imploring — to fall at last for very 
weakness on the ground and die in misery. 

‘^Hush, boy — hush — strengthen your heart — rouse your- 


240 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUB. 


self — think that your arms are strong though your back is 
round ; you can fire a gun ; you can kill a Russian ; you can 
fight, as men fight now ; and you are a Pulaski. 

‘‘ I thought, when I saw what you were, that Heaven had 
resolved to spare you the common lot of Poles. But that is 
not so — we must all go now.” 

Yes, Wassielewski — all must go. I among the rest.” 

I knew you would say that, when you had been told all. 
Look me in the face, boy, and swear it.” 

I swear it,” I murmured, in a broken voice. “ By the 
portrait of my mother, Wassielewski, I will go with you to 
Poland, when you claim my promise. You shall take me 
back to my own people : you shall say to them that I am 
poor and deformed ; that I can neither march with them, nor 
ride, nor stand upright among their ranks ; that I cannot 
even speak my own language ; but that I have greater wrongs 
to avenge than any of them; and that I ask leave just to 
crawl among them and load my rifle with the rest.” 

‘‘Good — boy — good.” The old mans eyes had an infinite 
tenderness in their depths while he took my hand. “ I am 
taking you to Death. That is almost certain. I pray God 
that we may die together, and that we may die upon a heap 
of Russians while the enemy is flying before our faces 
scattered like the chaff before the wind. Then I can take 
you by the hand and lead you to Heaven, where we shall find 
them both, waiting for us — Count Roman and Lady Claudia 
— and I shall say, ‘My master and my mistress, I have 
brought your boy home to you. And he died for Poland.’ 

“ It is not that I have done this of myself,” he went on. 
“ For years a voice has been ringing in my ears which at 
first I could not understand, — it was only a voice, and indis- 
tinct. Gradually I began to hear and make out what it 
said. ‘The time is coming,’ it said, ‘the time is coming. 
Prepare to end thy work. The time is coming.’ That lasted 
for a long while, but I was patient, because I knew that it 
was the Lady Claudia who spoke to me at night, and she 
would have good reason for what she said. And now the 
voice says more. It says, ‘ Ladiclas must be told j Ladiskis 


THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS. 


241 


must go with you; let Ladislas, too, fight for Poland.’ We 
must obey a voice from Heaven^ and so I have told you. 

Remember, I can promise you nothing — not even glory, 
not even a name. A^ou may be killed in a nameless fight 
upon a village green ; you may follow your father to Siberia ; 
I know not. I partly read the future, but not all. I see fight- 
ing. I hear the Polish hymn ; there are the accursed grey 
coats, there is the firing of guns, and all is finished. Among 
the patriots I do not see you, Ladislas, and I do not see myself. 

‘‘ You have sworn, and I will give you besides your father's 
cross, your mother’s portrait. Take them with you to-night, 
put them in some safe place, pray with them in your hand, 
night and day. Remember, you are no longer a music-master 
in an English town ; you are a child of Poland, and you teach 
music till you hear your country’s call. And now, farewell ; 
wait and expect.” 

• ••••••••• 

‘^Play something, Celia, my dear,” said the Captain. 
‘^Soothe his spirit with music. Poor boy, poor boy! He 
should not have told you.” 

• ••••••••• 

I went home in a dream, bearing with me the precious 
relics which Wassielewski gave me. I think I was mad 
that evening. It was nine o’clock when I reached home, 
and Celia had waited for me all the evening. But I had no 
eyes for Celia, and no thought for anything but what I had 
heard. And then, in such language as came to me, with 
such passion and tears as the tale called up within me, I told 
my story and once more renewed my vow. 

There was no sleep for me that night, but in the morning 
I fell into a slumber broken by unquiet dreams. There was 
the lumbering, grinding roll upon the frozen snow of the 
children’s train escorted by the mounted soldiers ; there was 
the figure of my mother, lying stone dead on a road of ice ; 
there was the gang of convicts limping along a road which 
seemed to have no beginning and no end. 


Q 


242 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUK. 


They would not let me go to my pupils ; my hands were 
hot, my brow was burning. Celia came to sit with me, and 
we talked and wept together. I was fain to tell my story 
all over again. She held my hand while I told it, and when 
it was finished I saw in her face no wrath, none of the mad- 
ness with which Wassielewski filled my soul the day before, 
but only a great sadness. I was still mad for revenge, but 
somehow I felt, instinctively as if Celia’s sorrow was not a 
higher thing than the old Pole’s thirst for revenge. And 
I was ashamed in presence of her sad and sympathising eyes 
to renew my oath of vengeance. 

Poor Laddy ! ” she said, what a tale of misery and 
wrong ! Let us pity the soldiers who had to carry out such 
an order. Let us believe that the Czar did not know — could 
not know — how his order was obeyed. Do not dwell upon 
it, dear. Do not let cruel and revengeful thoughts grow out 
of the recollection. ‘ Vengeance is mine,’ you know. Your 
mother’s face —how beautiful it is ! — does not make you think 
of revenge ? See how calmly the sweet eyes look at you ! 
And oh ! dear, dear, Laddy, make no more rash vows, at least 
till Leonard comes home. And it wants but three days — 
three short, short days, and we shall see him again, and all 
will go well with us once more.” 

The Captain said nothing, but in his sad face I saw that 
he sorrowed for me, and in his grave eyes I read the warning 
which did not leave his lips. 


CHAPTEE XXVII. 

THE DAY BEFORE. 

T hey were very patient with me, the Captain and Celia, 
while the madness was in my blood. They let me talk 
as wildly as I pleased, and did not argue. But on the third 
day Celia put her foot down. 

“I will hear nothing more, Laddy,” she said. You have 
spent three days in dreams of bloodshed and battle. Talk 
to me about your mother, if you please. I shall never tire 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


243 


of looking at her eyes. They are like yours — when you do 
not madden yourself with the recollection of that story. Let 
us picture the sweet life in the Polish village with the 
chateau beside it, and the girls dancing. Let us play their 
waltz, or let us go up to the wall and talk of Leonard. 
But no more battles.” 

It was a wise prohibition, and I had to obey. My thoughts 
were directed into a new channel, and the furies which 
had taken possession of me were, for the moment at least, 
expelled. 

Four days, then, to the twenty-first. Four long, tedious 
days. 

Then three. 

Then the days became hours, and at last we were only a 
single day — only four-and- twenty hours from the fixed time 
when Leonard should come back to us. In riches or in 
poverty” — somehow, in spite of all obstacles — he was to 
return to Celia’s Arbour on the evening of the twenty-first 
of June, 1858. How would he come back, and what would 
be his history ? 

‘^If he is changed, Laddy,” said Celia, ^‘he will find us 
changed too. You, poor boy, under a promise to go out and 
get killed for Poland. Not that you shall go, in spite of the 
old patriot. And I — what am I, Laddy ? ” 

‘‘You are like Andromeda chained to the rock, waiting 
for the monster to come and devour her. Or you are like 
an Athenian maiden going out to the youth-devouring 
Minotaur. But patience ; Perseus came to Andromeda, and 
Theseus killed the Minotaur. I fancy the Minotaur must 
have been a tall and rather imposing animal to look at, six 
feet high at least, with a heavy white moustache, and a 
military carriage. And very likely he wore blue spectacles 
out of doors.” 

“ And what was Theseus like ? ” 

“ I think we will call him Perseus, and our monster shall 
be Andromeda’s terror. There is an ugly story, you know, 
about Theseus and Ariadne.” 

Cis flushed a sweet rosy rei 


244 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


“ Then tell me wliat Perseus was like.” 

“ He was about as tall as the monster, perbaps not quita 
He was very handsome, had curly brown hair, perhaps he 
had a moustache, he was about four-and-twenty years of age ; 
he was greatly esteemed by everybody because he was so 
brave and strong ; there was a mystery about his birth which 
only made him more romantic ; there was, you know, about 
a good many of the ancients. Theseus, for instance, Achilles, 
OEdipus — the damsels all fell in love with him because there 
was no one in all Greece or the Isles half so handsome ; but 
he kept himself away from all of them. I believe there is a 
story about some Queen offering him half her throne if he 
would marry her, but he would not — declined in the most 
respectful, but unmistakable terms. When she received his 
answer, and sent half-a-dozen men to murder him — because 
terrible is the wrath of a woman whose beauty has been 
despised — he stood with his back against a wall, with his 
short sword held so, and with his shield held in the other 
hand, he made mincemeat of all those six murderers together, 
and went on his way without further molestation. There was 
a Dryad once, too, who met him in an Arcadian forest, and 
proffered him, in return for his love, half the balance of her 
life. She said she didn’t know how much there was left to 
run, but she thought about fifteen hundred years, or so, 
when she and her sister, and the great God Pan, would all 
be snuffed out together. Perseus told her that Love was 
immortal and not a slave to be bought or sold. So he passed 
away, and the Dryad, sitting under a tree, slowly pined and 
pined till Orpheus found her at last changed into the strings 
of an ^olian harp, and sighing most melodiously when the 
western breeze blew upon it. Perseus ” 

‘‘ Laddy, talk sense.” 

“ I can’t, Cis. I feel as if Leonard was coming home to 
lift a great weight from both our hearts. I do not know 
how. I feel it. Perseus, however, was not callous to female 
loveliness, only he had given his heart away five years before^ 
Cis, five years before.” 

Laddy, I forbid you to go on.” 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


245 


is not a made-np story, Cis. I am certain it is all 
true. Arthur and Barbarossa are coming some day, to 
remove the miseries of the people. Why not Leonard to 
take away our troubles? We had no troubles when he went 
away. Now we are hampered and fettered, by no fault of 
our own, and I see no way out of it.” 

‘‘Does the Captain know that it is so near?” 

“ Yes, he has not spoken of it to me, and he will not, I am 
sure. But he knows, and is looking forward. Last night I 
heard his step for an hour in his room, after he had gone to 
bed. He was thinkiug of Leonard, and could not sleep. 
And this morning he told Mrs. Jeram that you were going 
to stay all night to-mon’ow.” 

“ Did he ? The kind old Captain ! ” 

“ And that there would be another guest, and she was to 
get supper, a magnificent supper. The other guest, he 
explained, was to have his own room, and you were to have 
the spare room. Then I interposed, and said that a better 
arrangement would be to put the stranger into the spare 
bed in my room, so that he would not have to turn out. He 
grumbled and laughed, but he gave way.” 

“ So he knows — but no one else.” 

“ No one else ; not even poor old Mrs. Jeram.” 

“We have gained a little time,” said Celia; “Herr 
Eaumer has not asked yet for my decision ; but he has not 
given me up ; and I am sure he will not. My father says 
nothing ; but he starts if I come upon him suddenly. How 
will Leonard be able to help us with him ? ” 

How indeed? And yet, somehow he was going to help. 
I was quite sure of it. 

“ And how will Leonard help us ? ” I asked. 

“It is no use hoping,” said Celia. “ Leonard can help 
neither of us.” 

“ He will help you, somehow, Cis. Of that be very sure. 
But he cannot help me.” 

“ He shall help you, Laddy. Do you think we are going 
to let you go off to be killed ? ” 

“I must,” I said. “I have partly got over the revengeful 


246 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


madness which filled my soul when Wassielewski told me 
my story. I can think of a Russian, now, without wanting 
to tear his heart out. But the old man is right ; I owe my 
life to the same cause in which my father and my mother 
lost theirs. If I can do anything for Poland, I must. And 
if Wassielewski tells me that it will be good for my country if 
I go out to get shot in his name, why I must do that. And 
I have sworn to do it on the cross that my father carved.” 

‘‘ Sworn ! Laddy, of what power is an oath made under 
those conditions ? You were maddened when you swore that 
oath. That old enthusiast ought never to have told you the 
story.” 

‘‘ Cis, dear. If I were to break that oath, it would break 
his heart. There is no way out of it at all. I must go.” 

That was the real reason. Heaven knows that during the 
first transport of rage, while before my eyes moved, visible in 
all the details, the long line of carts full of children, escorted 
by cavalry, and followed by shrieking women, running blindly 
along in the snow, and among them my poor mother, there 
was no scheme of vengeance, however mad, into which I 
wouldn’t have plunged with joy. With calmer thoughts 
came better judgment, and I hope I shall not be accused of 
insensibility because I listened to Celia when she said that 
the perils of hopeless insurrection were not what my mother s 
death called for. There is no blacker story in all the black 
record of Russia than that robbery and murder of those 
helpless children ; no wail yet resounding within the vaults 
of space than my poor mother s last cry for her stolen child. 
And yet, oh sweet pure eyes ; oh tender face ; oh lips of soft 
and compassionate mould — would you wish in return for 
your death another tale of misery and retribution ? 

And if I did not go when the old man should think it the 
time to summon me, I should break his heart. It was the 
dream of his old age to carry back with him the son of his 
murdered mistress. He thought that because his own life 
had been spent in brooding over that cruel crime, all good 
Poles at home had done the same thing, and he dreamed that 
be had but to show himself with me beside him to say, This 


THE BAY BEFORE. 


247 


is the child of Roman Pulaski, tortured to death in the mines, 
and Claudia, who died of cold and fatigue trying to save the 
child,” and that thousands would rise from all quarters to die 
for Poland. For at least he entertained no illusions of pos- 
sible success. Poland could not free herself in his lifetime ; 
of that he was quite certain. All the more honour to those 
who, knowing the worst, were ready to brave the inevitable. 

When a man fixes his thoughts incessantly upon one thing, 
when day and night he is always dwelling upon a great aim, 
there comes or seems to come unto him, when his mind is 
charged with figures of the present and the future, the gift 
of prophecy. The mist which falls upon the spirit of the 
Highland seer is gloomy always, and full of woe. The prophet 
is always like him who would prophecy no good concerning 
Ahabj but only evil. As for me, I think : 

“ Too dearly would be won 
The prescience of another’s pain, 

If purchased by mine own.” 


Six years ago, when the maddest of all modern revolts, that 
of the Commune of Paris, was staggering to its doom in blood 
and flame, there was one man among the leaders, Delescluze 
by name, who out of a life of over sixty years had spent 
between thirty and forty in prison, for the sacred cause of 
the people. Twice had he travelled backwards and forwards 
on that cruel and stifling voyage between Brest and Cayenne. 
Many times had he been arrested on suspicion ; he had been 
hauled before judges, brow-beaten, scoffed and punished; 
had he been in Prussia he would have had the administration 
of stick, with those cuffs, boxes of the ear, kicks, and addresses 
in the third person, which illustrate the superior sweetness 
and light of the land of Geist, Had he been in Russia he 
would have had the knout. As he was in France he only 
got prison, with insufficient food, and wretched lodging. 
There came the time of the Commune, prophesied by Heine, 
after the siege, when Delescluze for the first time in his life 
got his chance. It was really only the ghost of a chance, but 
he did his best with it. Of course he failed, as we know, 


248 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


and became, togetber witb his party, a byword of execration, 
by him quite undeserved. When it was apparent, even to 
him, the most fervent believer in the Commune, that there 
really was no longer any hope left, the poor old man was sent 
forth to meet Death. He would not wait to be brought 
before a Court-martial, to have more questions to answer, 
more witnesses to hear examined, to listen to more speeches, 
to wait in suspense for the sentence which would do him to 
death, to go back to a miserable prison, and sit there till the 
hour struck, when in the cold grey of the spring dawn he 
was to be placed with his back against the wall of La 
Eoquette and receive the bullets of the soldiers. All this 
was too wearisome. But he had to die. His work in the 
world was over. He had striven for the best ; he had main- 
tained his own ideal of purity and singleness of purpose ; as 
he had lived for the Cause, so he would die amid its dying 
struggles. He descended into the street, took off his hat, as 
one should in the presence of Death, of God, and of the 
Judgment, and walked without a word along the way till he 
came to the first barricade. Up to this he climbed, and then 
standing, his long white hair streaming in the wind, his 
sorrowful eyes looking upwards, his face full of that great love 
for humanity which made him half divine, he awaited the 
bullet, which was not long in coming. 

When I read the story of the death of Delescluze, when I 
conversed with a man who actually saw it, 1 thought of poor 
old Wassielewski, for such was he, as unselfish, as simple, as 
strong in his conviction, and careless of himself, if, by spend- 
ing and being spent, he could advance the Cause. 

With brave words and a great pretence at cheerfulness I 
comforted poor Celia, and prophesied her release; but I 
could not feel the assurance I pretended. How could 
Leonard, if he were ever so successful, free her so as to leave 
her father safe from the German’s revenge ? How could 
he release me from the oath which bound me to the old 
Pole, and yet not darken the last years of his life with the 
thought that the child of the Lady Claudia was a traitor 
to his mother’s cause ? 


THE DAY BEFORE. 


M9 


We had been living in a foors paradise, expecting such 
great things ; and now at the very time when they ought 
to be coming off, we were face to face with the cold truth. 

We must not think of ourselves any more, Laddy,’' said 
Cis, as if reading my heart. ‘‘ If Leonard can help us, he 
will. At all events, he will be on our side. I shall wait 
patiently until I am called upon to give my answer, and then, 
Laddy — and then if for my father’s sake ” — she broke off and 
left the sentence unfinished. You must both of you try 
not to think badly of me.” 

We shall never think badly of you, whatever you do, Cis,” 
I said, a little huskily. 

Come home with me, Laddy,” she said, rising from the 
grass. ‘‘It is nearly eight o’clock. See, the tide is high; 
we shall have everything to-morrow evening just as it was 
five years ago ; a splendid evening ; a flowing tide ; the light 
of a midsummer sunset on the water ; the buttercups and 
daisies out upon the meadow ; the long green grass waving 
on the ramparts and growing up before the mouth of the 
cavern ; you and I, dear Laddy, standing by the old gun, 
waiting for him. What was it he promised ? ‘ In velvet or 
in rags — in riches or poverty, I will come to see you on the 
2istofJune, 1858.’ And now it is the 20th. Laddy — tell 
me how he will come.” 

“We shall see him first,” I said, “crossing the meadow, 
just down there. We shall know him by the backward toss 
of his head. Presently we shall see his brown curls, and 
then his eyes and his mouth. He will see us then, and his 
lips and eyes will laugh a welcome before he runs up the 
slope. Then he will spring upon us in his old way, and — 
and — where he said good-bye, Cis, he kissed you.” 

“We are older now,” said Cis. “And do not be silly, 
sir. As if men want to kiss like children ! ” 

“It depends, my dear,” I replied wisely, “on the object. 
However, that will be the manner of his return. And then 
we shall all three march off to the Captain’s, Leonard 
between us ; and should be singing as we went, but for the 
look of the thing: Leonard will be asking us questions 


250 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


about the dear old Captain and everybody — wait — Cis — wait 
for four-and-twenty hours.” 

I went home with her. Herr Eaumer was talking to Mrs. 
Tyrrell in the drawing-room. We had a little music. The 
German played and sang one or two of his Volkslieder in 
his most sentimental manner, but we listened very little. 
Mr. Tyrrell was in his office, and I crept down to see him. 

He was sitting in an attitude of profound melancholy 
before a pile of papers. 

‘‘Shut the door, Laddy, boy,” he said wearily. Who is 
upstairs ? ” 

“ Herr Eaumer, Mrs. Tyrrell, and Cis.” 

He sighed. 

“ He is beginning to worry about an answer. What would 
Celia say ? ” 

“Celia would be made wretched for life. It cannot be. 
Is it quite, quite necessary ? ” 

“ There is one way out of it,” he murmured. 

I stood still and looked at him. 

“ What is the one way out of it ? ” 

“ There are two ways — Death and Dishonour. Let no one 
know, Laddy. Think of me as you must, only think that 
for no other cause would I ask this thing of my child. Poor 
Celia! Poor Celia!” 

He drew his hand across his forehead. 

“ I cannot sleep — I cannot work — I can think of nothing 
else. Do you believe I like to have that man here — that 
cold and selfish cynic — that I willingly tolerate him in my 
house, to say nothing of seeing him hang about my daughter ? 
But I am a lost man, Ladislas. I am a lost and guilty man, 
and I must abide my lot.” 

A lost and guilty man ! And this the most successful 
man in the town ! 

He pointed to the safe painted outside “ Herr Eaumer.” 

“ The papers are there — locked up. If I only had the key 
for one minute Celia would be free.” 


THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 


251 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 

T he day fulfilled its promise of the evening: it was one of 
those most perfect and glorious days which sometimes 
fall in June, and make that month, in full summer and yet 
with all the hope and promise of the year before it, the most 
delightful of any. I rose early, because I could not sleep ; 
bat I found the Captain up before me, at work in the garden. 
But he prodded the ground nervously, and made little pro- 
gress. At prayers he opened the Bible at random, and read 
what fell first before his eyes. It was a chapter of the Song 
of Solomon, and as he read his voice faltered. 

‘ The watchmen that go about the city found me : to 
whom I said. Saw ye him whom my soul loveth ? 

‘ It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found 
him whom my soul loveth.* ” 

Then he stopped, having read only the first four verses of 
the chapter; and to him, as to me, they seemed to be of 
good omen. 

He did not mention Leonard’s name, but he presently 
went upstairs, and I knew he was gone to see that the room 
was in order for him. He brought out certain articles of 
family plate which only saw the light on grand occasions : 
and I caught him making extensive and costly preparations 
with a couple of bottles of champagne. All day he was very 
serious. Nor did he, as usual, go out upon those mysterious 
rounds of his, of which I have spoken. 

“ Celia will come here to dinner, sir.” 

‘^Ay — ay . The earlier the better. Celia cannot 

come too early or too often.” He sat down in his wooden 
arm-chair and began to nurse his leg in a meditative fashion. 

‘‘ Laddy Celia Tyrrell is a very beautiful girl.” 

‘‘Have you only found that out to-day, sir?” I asked. 
“Why, she is the most beautiful girl in all the world, I 
believe.” 

“ I was thinking — Laddy — if things are all right — and they 


252 


BY CELIACS AEBOUE. 


must be all right, or else he would have written — when he- 
comes home — he might — I know I should have done so at his 
age — he might — fall in love with her. She must have a good 
husband, the best husband that we can find for her. Look 
high or low, Laddy, I can see no one but Leonard that will 
do for her.” 

But you have not seen him yet. And he may have fallen 
in love with some one else.” 

Nonsense, boy. As if I did not know what he is like. 
Curs don’t grow out of lion’s cubs ; you can’t turn a white boy 
into a nigger ; and a Portugee, as every sailor knows, is a 
Portugee by birth.” 

Then we began, as we had done the night before, specu- 
lating how the wanderer would return. He was above all 
things, according to the Captain, to be strong, handsome, and 
successful. 

Celia came to our midday dinner, and when it was over we 
moved into the garden, and sat under the old mulberry-tree. 
The sun was streaming full upon the sheet of water before us, 
and a light breeze crisped the surface. 

We spread the rugs on the grass, and all three sat down 
upon them, Celia lying with her head on the Captain’s knees, 
while he sat with his back against the tree. It was peaceful 
and quiet, save for the boom of the mill hard by, and to that 
we were accustomed. 

The excitement of the day touched Celia’s cheek with a 
light fiush, and heightened the brightness of her eyes. I had 
never before seen her more perfectly beautiful than on that 
afternoon. The Captain’s eyes rested on her face, and his 
hand was in her hair with a gentle caress. 

‘‘This was where you were sleeping,” she said in a low 
voice, “ when he first came.” 

We did not say “ Leonard ” on this day, because our minds 
were full of him, and a pronoun was quite as useful as the 
noun. 

The Captain nodded his head. 

“Just here, my dear,” he replied, “and just such an after- 
noon as this, without the breeze, and maybe a thought warmer. 


THE TWE^^TY-riRST OF JUNE. 


253 


It was in August, when the mulberries are ripe. I came out 
after dinner. My dinners were solitary enough then, before 
I had the boys to mess with me, and I sat under the tree and 
smoked my pipe. Then I fell fast asleep. What woke me 
was the mulberries dropping on my face, and then I looked 
up and saw the pretty rogue laughing at me, with his mouth 
full of mulberries, and his face and hands stained black with 
mulberry juice. Ho! ho! and he began to laugh at once. 
What a boy he was ! What a boy ! Never any boy like him 
for spirit. A thousand pities he wasn’t a sailor.” 

And you never lost sight of him after that ? ” said Celia. 

No, my pretty — never after that. It was a matter of a 
year or two though before I found out that I was a lonely 
old bachelor, and wanted the boys with me. Wanted them 
badly, you may be sure. We had a good spell of fine weather, 
those years you were both of you at school, Laddy, hadn’t 
we ? ” 

Indeed we had, sir.” 

I was at sea when I was thirteen, and I hadn’t much 
experience of shore-going boys till then. To be sure, I was 
always fond of watching boys at play, and talking to them — 
perhaps throwing in a word on the great subject of duty. 
But Lord ! the things I learned from those two ! The pretty 
ways of them when they were next door to babies ! and their 
growing up to be boys together bit by bit. Then how they 
grew to be self-reliant, and how we all grew to understand 
each other ! My dear,” the good old man continued simply, 
‘‘ if I were to give you what is best for all of us, man or 
woman, I would give you children. You can’t distrust the i 
Lord when you have felt what it is for the little children to^ 
trust and love you. I never had a wife, but I have had two 
boys all the same. Both good sons to me — Laddy, there, 
will not be jealous — and to each his gifts; but Leonard was 
born, like Nelson, without fear.” 

Always a brave boy, was he not. Captain ? ” Celia mur- 
mured. 

It’s a rare gift. Most of us learn by experience how to 
go into action without fear, and a fight is a red-letter day 


254 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


for soldiers as well as sailors. But Leonard would have gone 
in laughing as a middy. It’s a beautiful thing to see a plucky 
boy! You remember how he used to come home after a 
fight, Laddy ? The other boy always struck his colours, eh ? 
— and generous and thoughtful with it, too. Why did I ever 
consent to his going away for five years ? ” 

Patience I ” said Cis. Tell me more about him.” 

We kept the Captain amused all the afternoon with yarns 
of Leonard’s school life, while in the quiet garden the big 
bumble bees droned, and the hollyhocks turned their great 
foolish faces to the sun, while the mill went grinding as the 
water ran out with the tide to the deep-toned music of its 
heavily-turning wheels, and the golden sunshine of June lay 
upon the rippled waters of the mill-dam, and lit with flashes 
of dazzling light the leaves of the trees upon the little island 
redoubt. 

At six I brought out a table and chair, and we had tea in 
the garden, also under the mulberry tree. Cis made it for 
us ; she always made it so much better than we did. 

And {"hen the time began to drag, and the Captain to look 
at his watch furtively. Presently the mill stopped, and 
everything became quite still. That meant that it was 
seven o’clock. 

Then Celia and I rose from the table. 

‘‘We are going for a walk. Captain,” said Cis. 

“ Mayn’t I go too ? ” he asked wistfully. 

She shook her head with decision. 

“ Certainly not. You have got to stay at home. We 
have got to go to the walls and — and walk about there — and 
talk. And we shall not be back till a quarter to nine, 
or perhaps later. Perhaps, Captain, we still bring you 
some news — Oh ! What news will it be ? ” she cried 
eagerly. 

No one on the Queen’s Bastion, when we got there ; Celia’s 
Arbour as deserted as any outwork of Palmyra ; no one on 
the long straight stretch of wall between the gate and the 
Bastion — not even a nurse with children ; and our own corner 
as green and grassy, as shaded by the great elm, as when, five 


THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 


255 

years ago, Leonard bade us farewell there. Nothing changed 
here, at any rate. 

Ladcly,” whispered Celia, in awe-struck tones, suppose, 
after all, he should not come.” 

“ He will come, Celia ; but we are an hour before our 
time.” 

Oh ! what a long day it has been ! I am selfish. I have 
been able to think of nothing but my own troubles until 
to-day. And now they seem to be all forgotten in this great 
anxiety.” 

We walk up and down the quiet wall, talking idly of things 
unimportant, talking to pass the time. 

Eight struck from half-a-dozen clocks, from the clock in 
the Dockyard, the clock on the Ordnance Wharf, the clock of 
St. Faith’s, the clock of St. John’s, from all of them. The 
splendid sun was sloping fast towards Jack the Painter’s 
Point ; the great harbour, for it was high tide, just as on that 
night when Leonard went away, was a vast lake of molten 
fire, with sapphire edging below our feet. We leaned against 
the rampart and looked out, but we were no longer thinking 
of the Harbour or the light upon it. 

Five years since he left us, a tall stripling of seventeen, to 
seek his fortune in the wide and friendless world. Five 
years. Celia was a little girl who was now so tall and fair. 
In her, at least, Leonard would not be disappointed. And I? 
Well, I suppose I was much the same to look at. And for 
my fortunes, there was little to tell, and nothing to be proud 
of. Only a music-master in a provincial town ; only an 
organist to a church ; a composer of simple songs to please 
myself and Celia. But what would he be like? What tale 
would he have to tell us ? What adventures to relate ? 
In what part of the world had his fortunes drifted 
him ? 

Five years. They make a girl into a woman; a boy into 
a man; five links in the chain of time ; time to make new 
friends, to form and lose new loves ; to strengthen a purpose ; 
to make or mar a life. Had they made or had they marred 
the life of Leonard ? 


256 


BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. 


What will he say when he sees us ? ” murmured Celia, 
He will remember, Cis, the words of Spencer — 


“ ‘ Tell me, ye merchant’s daughters, did ye see 
So fair a creature in your town before ? 

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 

Adorned with beauty’s grace and virtue’s store.* ” 

“ Don’t, Laddy, please. Let us talk only of him until he 
comes.” 

“ Where is he now ? ” she whispered, looking round. 
‘‘ On the road walking quickly, so as to keep his promise 
to the minute ? Is he in the train ? Do you think he 
came last night, and has been hiding away in an hotel all 
day for fear of meeting us before the time ? 0 Laddy ! 

let us move about at least. I cannot stand here doing 
nothing.” 

The minutes passed slowly on. I looked at my watch. 

Twenty minutes more. Courage, Cis ! Only twenty 
minutes. Where are your thoughts now ? ” 

‘‘ I was thinking of the dear old time. Listening to his 
talk about the great world — it lay over there, you remember, 
behind the harbour and the hill. Wishing I had been a 
man, to go with him and fight the world beside him.” 

Five years ago, Cis ! Why, Leonard may have lost his 
faith in his own power, and ” 

“ Don’t, Laddy. Not now. It is all we have to believe in. 
And — and — Laddy — please — do not tell him what you 
told me.” 

I understand, dear Cis. I have forgotten that I ever 
told you.” 

“ Not but that you made me happy and proud ; any girl 
would be proud to think of having had, if only for a day, such 
a hope and such a love. But he must never know. And yet 
I should be ashamed to hide things from him.” 

‘‘ Until you tell him yourself then, Cis.” 

1 looked at my watch again. Heavens ! had Time tumbled 
down and hurt himself, so that he could only crawl ? Only 
a quarter-past eight. Fifteen minutes more. 


THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 


257 


Where are you now, Ois ? 

‘‘ I am thinking what a difference he will see in us, and 
we in him. Why, I was only a child, a girl of fourteen, 
then, and you were only fifteen.’’ 

‘‘ At least,” I said, ‘‘ he will see no difference in me. I 
am no taller and no straighten But you — oh ! Celia, if you 
only knew how beautiful he will think you ! ” 

That is only what you think, dear Laddy. Beautiful ? 
Oh ! if I ever had any thoughts that are not common or 
mean, it is because you have put them into my heart. 
What should I be now, if I had not had you, all these five 
long years ? ” 

She stooped, and kissed my cheek. 

I could endure that now — I could kiss her in return — • 
without that old passionate yearning which, a very little 
while before, had been wont to set the blood tingling in every 
pulse at very sight of her. The monks of old were quite 
right in one thing, though, as a Protestant, I am bound to 
think that they had a very confused and imperfect sort of 
perception. I mean that you may, by dint of resolution and 
patience — they would call it prayer and penance — quite beat 
down and entirely subdue any inclination of the heart or 
intellect. They started with the supposition that every man 
was bound to fall in love with every woman. That is absurd, 
but an intelligible position on the score of monkish ignorance. 
I, for my part, was only in danger once of falling in love. 
Having seen, known, and learned the sweet nature of one 
woman, it was not possible that I should ever fall in love 
with another. 

We kissed each other on the lips, and then we sat with 
clasped hands upon the sloping bank, waiting. At last the 
clock struck the half-hour, and we turned together and 
looked across the green. 

Suddenly came a figure, a ragged figure, walking swiftly 
across the grass. 

Yes, as I had prophesied, by the backward fling of his 
head, by the proud carriage, by the firm and elastic walk, we 
knew him. 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


258 

Celia clasped my hands convulsively, and I hers; and 
before she sprang to her feet she whispered — 

“See, he is ragged — he is poor— he has failed. Not a 
word, not a look, Laddy, to let him see what we feel. Oh, 
my poor Leonard ! my poor Leonard ! ’’ 

She made a little moan, and then ran forward to meet him. 
For it was Leonard himself and no other, who, at sight of 
us, came bounding up the grass slope with quick and eager 
step, and in a moment was with us, holding Celia by both his 
hands, and gazing in her face with eyes that spoke of love — 
of love — of love. Who could mistake that look ! Not Celia, 
who met the look once, and then dropped her eyes shame- 
faced. Not I, who knew by sad experience what love might 
be, how strong a king, how great a conqueror. 

In one glance we caught the melancholy truth. He was 
in rags ; there was no petty pretence of genteel shabbiness ; 
there was no half failure, he was in rags absolute. He wore 
a battered old felt hat, the brim of which, partly torn, hung 
over his right eye ; he had on a coat which was a miracle for 
shabbiness ; it was green where it ought to have been black ; 
shiny where it had once exhibited a youthful gloss ; and it 
had a great hole on the left shoulder, such a hole as would 
be caused by carrying a bundle on a stick. The coat, an old 
frock, was fastened by the two surviving buttons across his 
chest. One could see that he had no waistcoat, and his 
trousers were in the last stage of dilapidation and decay. 
He wore neither collar nor neck-tie. But it was Leonard. 
There was no mistake about him. Leonard come back to us 
on the day that he promised. Leonard, dressed as a beggar 
and stepping like a prince. 

“ Celia !— Laddy 
“ Leonard ! ” 

Both hands ; not one. And as he clasped her tight she 
drew nearer to him, and like a child who holds up his face 
to be kissed, she looked up at him. But there was no kiss. 
Men, as Celia said, are not like children, always wanting to 
kiss. Oho ! Cis, as if you knew ! Man’s love is like the 
morning sun, which, falling on his bride, the earth, draws 


THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 


259 


up sweet mists which rise to hide her blushes. Leonard was 
come back, and now I understood how in her mind Leonard 
was to make all straight, because Leonard loved her, and she 
loved Leonard. And he a beggar. 

He got one hand free, and gave it to me. 

^^Laddy! Well? You at least are not changed. But 
look at Celia ! ” 

Take off your hat, Leonard,” she said. “ Let us look at 
your face. Laddy ! He is just the same, except for that.” 
8he laughed, and patted her own upper lip wdth her fingers. 
Leonard had grown a great moustache. And his face is 
bronzed. Where have you been, sir, to get your face so 
brown ? Fie ! What a bad hat ! A great hole in the side 
of it, and look what a coat to come home in ! Dear, dear, 
before we take him home to the Captain we must dress him 
up. What a pity he is too tall to wear your things, Laddy. 
Now we have found him again we will never let him go. 
Will we? He is our prodigal son, Laddy, who has come 
back to us — back to us,” and here she broke down, and 
burst into tears. ‘‘We have so longed for you, have we 
not, Laddy ? And the time has been so weary, waiting for 
you.” 

“But I am come at last, Celia,” he said, with eyes that 
filled — I had never before seen a tear in Leonard’s eyes — 
“ I have kept my promise. See — in rags and tatters, with 
empty pockets.” He turned them out. 

“ What does it matter,” she cried, “ so long as we have 
you, how you conie ? ” 

“ And the Captain ? ” 

“ He is well,” I told him, “ and waiting at home for us all. 
Come, Leonard.” 

He hesitated, and looked with a humorous smile at his 
ragged habiliments. 

“ What will the Captain say to these rags? Dear old boy, 
it is not as he expects, is it ? Nor as you expected, Celia.” 

“No, Leonard, I am sorry for your ill-success. But it 
wasn’t your own fault ? ” 

“ No, certainly not my own fault,” he replied, with a queer 


26 o 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


look. ^‘Not my own fault. I have done my best. Celia 
and Laddy ! How jolly it is to say the two names over again 
with their owners in the old place ! And how often have I 
said them to myself, thousands of miles away,” — he had been 
a traveller, then. ‘‘ Suppose you two go first to the Captain, 
and prepare him. Will not that be best ? Say that he 
must not be surprised to find me coming home in a sad 
plight — all in rags, you know — tell him about the hat, 
Laddy, and then — I will only be a quarter o‘‘ an hour after 
you — he won’t be so very much shocked. Will you do this? 
Good. Then, in a quarter of an hour, I will be there.” 

He caught Celia’s hand and kissed it, looking her in the 
eyes half lovingly, half amused, and ran down the slope as 
lightly as if he was come back a conquering prince. 

We looked at each other in stupefaction. Was it really 
Leonard? Was it a strange dream ? 

Can you understand it, Celia ? ” 

‘‘Not yet, Laddy, dear. Do not speak to me just now.” 

“ His hands were white,” I went on, unheeding, “ like the 
hands of a gentleman; his boots were good and new, the 
boots of a gentleman ; and his face — did that look like the 
face of a beggar, Celia ? ” 

“ Always the same face, Laddy. The dearest face in all 
the world to you and to me, isn’t it? Poor and in rags. 
Poor — poor Leonard ! ” 

“ I don’t know,” I replied, “ whether your face isn’t dearer 
to me than Leonard’s. That is because I have seen more of 
it, perhaps. But why is he in such a dreadful plight ? He 
said he had been thousands of miles away. He must have 
been an emigrant in America, and failed.” 

Of course that was it. He must have gone to America 
as an emigrant and failed. 

We crept slowly and sadly back, like a pair of guilty 
children. What were we to say to the Captain? Who 
ghould break the news ? 


«A SURPRISE.’ 


261 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
‘‘a surprise/’ 


HE Captain, dressed in his Sunday blue uniform coat and 



J- white ducks, was sitting at his table, pretending to read. 
At least he had a book open before him, but I observed that 
it was upside down, and it was not usual with the Captain to 
read with the book in that position. But it was getting 
dark ; the sunset gun had gone half an hour before ; and the 
twilight of the longest day was lying over the garden and 
the smooth waters of the Mill Dam. Perhaps, therefore, 
the Captain could see to read no more, and, indeed, his eyes 
were not so good as they had been. The candles were on 
the table, but they were not lit; and the cloth was laid for 
supper. He had been listening to our footsteps, and when 
we came in looked up with a quick air of expectation which 
changed to disappointment. 

You two ? ” he cried. Back again ? — ^And alone — 
alone ? ’’ 

We had pretended, all day long, not to know who was 
coming in the evening, but the pretence broke down now. 

Celia threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

Dear old Captain,” she whispered ; yes, he has come 
back — our Leonard has come home again to us.” 

He started to his feet trembling. 

Where is he, then ? Why do you look at me like that? 
Why does he not come to me ? What is it, Laddy ? ” 

‘‘ Perhaps, sir, he is ashamed to come.” 

‘‘ Ashamed ? Leonard ashamed ? Why ? ” 

Suppose,” said Celia, laying her hand on the Captain’s 
shoulder, suppose, Captain dear, that our boy, after he had 
promised his friends to come back triumphant, found the 
world too strong for him, and had to come back — in poverty, 
and not triumphant at all ? ” 

Is that all ? ” cried the stout old Captain. Leonard has 
failed, has he ? That is nothing. Many a lad fails at first. 
Give him rope enough and no favour, and he’ll do in the 


262 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


long-run. It’s the confounded favour plays the mischief, 
ashore as well as afloat. Leonard has not had fair play. 
Where is the boy ? ” 

And at this moment a step in the hall, and a scream, and 
a shufile, showed that the ‘‘boy” was arrived, and in the 
arms of the faithful Jeram. 

“ Oh, my beautiful boy — oh ! my bonnie boy. Let your old 
nurse kiss you once again — and you so tall and brave.” 

The Captain could restrain himself no longer. 

“ Leonard,” he shouted, breaking through Celia’s arms, 
“ Leonard, ahoy ! Welcome home, my lad.” 

We caught each other’s hands' and trembled, waiting for 
the moment when the Captain should discover the rags and 
tatters. 

“ Shall I light the candles, Laddy ?” 

“Not yet, Celia. Yes — do — it will be best so. The 
Captain must know all in a few minutes.” 

They were in the hall, laughing, shaking hands, and ask- 
ing each other all round, and all at once, how they were, 
and how they had been. 

“ Supper at once, Mrs. Jeram,” cried the jolly old Captain. 
“Supper at once. Such a feast we will make. And none 
of your fanteegs about not sitting down with Miss Celia, 
Mrs. Jeram, if you please. Now then, Leonard, my boy, 
come and talk to Laddy and Celia. Lord ! how glad I am, 
how glad I am ! ” 

We look at each other. One moment, and the rags would 
be visible to the naked eye. 

“ Poor Leonard — Oh, poor Leonard ! ” Celia whispered. 

Then we started and cried out together, for the Captain 
and he came in together, the Captain with his hand upon 
Leonard’s stalwart shoulder, and a face which was like the 
ocean for its multitudinous smile. 

But where were the rags ? 

They were gone. Before us stood the handsomest man, I 
believe, in all the world. He was nearly six feet high, his 
light brown hair lay in short crisp curls upon his head, his 
eyes had the frankest, loyalest look in them that I have ever 


«A SUEPHISEJ 


263 


seen in any man, and at that moment the happiest look as 
well. I declare that I have never seen in all my forty years 
of life so splendid a man as Leonard was at five-and-twenty. 
As he did not look one-half so splendid in rags one is bound 
to admit that clothes do improve even the finest figure. And 
as he stood in the doorway with the Captain I was dazzled 
by the beauty and vigour of the man. As for his dress, it 
w^as nothing but a plain black coat, with light summer 
trousers, just as any gentleman might wear. That was it: 
any gentleman. 

He had succeeded, then. 

beg your pardon, Celia, and yours, Laddy,” said 
Leonard. ‘‘ The foolish thought came into my head to see 
how you would receive me if I were to return in poverty and 
rags. So I masqueraded. I meant to come on here and see 
the Captain too, just as I was. But I had not the heart 
when I saw the pain it gave you. So I made an excuse and 
gave up the silly trick. Forgive me, Celia.’’ 

Her eyes, which had been frank with pity, looked more 
shyly into Leonard’s as she listened. 

“ What is there to forgive, Leonard ? If we were glad to 
have you back again any way, how much more glad ought 
we to be that you have come back — as you are ? 

But you do not know me — as I am.” 

“ Come, come, no explanations now,” cried the Captain. 

Sapper first, talk afterwards. I am so glad. Here’s some- 
thing I found to-day in your room. Master Leonard. See if 
you have forgotten the old tune.” 

Of course he had not forgotten it. It was the old fife on 
which he used to play the Boast Beef of Old England 
every Sunday before dinner. Leonard laughed, took up his 
position at the door, and piped lustily while the maid brought 
in the supper. 

We all sat down, I at the end, and Celia on the Captain’s 
right, Leonard at his left, and Mrs. Jeram next him. I 
don’t think we ate much at that supper, though it consisted 
of cold fowls and ham, the Captain’s fixed idea of what a 
supper ought to be, but we had a bottle of champagne, a 


264 


CELIACS AftBOtrU. 


drink looked upon in those days as a costly luxury, to be 
reserved for weddings, Christmas dinners, and such great 
occasions. What greater occasion than the welcome home 
of the exile ! 

‘^No explanations till after supper,'' repeated the Captain. 

Celia, my pretty, not a question. Take another wing, my 
dear. No ? Then Leonard shall have it. Leonard, my boy, 
here’s to you again. Your health, my lad. After supper, you 
shall tell us all. I am so glad.” 

Supper finished, I began. 

Now, Leonard.” 

^‘Not yet,” said the Captain. ‘^The Bible and Prayer- 
book, Laddy, my boy.” 

Putting on his glasses, the old man turned over the pages 
till he found what he wanted. 

Then he laid his hand upon the place and looked up. 

Before I read the chapter,” he said, ‘‘ I wish to say that 
I thank God for my two boys, and for the trust that has 
always been with me, firm and strong, that the one who was 
away in the world would turn out as good in the matter of 
duty as the one who stayed with me.” 

And then, to our extreme discomfiture, he proceeded to 
read the story of the Prodigal Son. What on earth had the 
Prodigal Son to do with ns at this juncture? Prayers de- 
spatched— he was always brief, after the manner of sailors, 
over prayers — he made another little speech. 

‘‘ Since Leonard went away,” he said, “ which is five years 
to-day, as long a cruise as ever I made in the old days, IV0 
been drawn towards this parable till I know it by heart. IVe 
thought at times — What if Leonard were to come back like 
that young man with five years' neglect of duty upon his 
mind? How should we have to receive him? And here I 
find the directions laid dowm plain. Lord ! Lord ! how plain 
a man’s course is marked out for him, with lighthouses along 
the coast, and the mariner’s compass, and the stars to steer 
by at night — if only he would use his eyes. Well, Mrs. 
Jeram, ma’am, and Celia, and Laddy, it was clear what we 
all had to do. And though a dreadful thought crossed my 


A SURPRISE 


265 

mind wRen you came Rome witRout Rim, and beat about the 
bush, talking of failure and such things, which I now perceive 
to Rave been only the remains of the devilment that always 
hung about the lad, I went out into the passage bold, and 
prepared, I hope, to act according to open orders. Some- 
how, we generally think, when we read this Divine parable, 
of the young man. To-night, all through supper, IVe been 
thinking about his father, and I have been pitying that father. 
What if his boy, who had been away from home for five years 
or thereabouts, came home to him, not as he did, in rags and 
disgrace, but proud and tall, bringing his sheaves with him, 
my dear — bringing bis sheaves with him ! Think of that ; 
for I am so glad, Leonard, I am so glad and happy.” 

We were all silent while the good old man cleared his 
throat and wiped his eyes. Celia leaned her head upon his 
shoulder and wept unrestrainedly. 

Therefore I say,” continued the Captain, the Lord be 
thanked for all His mercies, and if Laddy will play the 
Hundredth Psalm, and Celia will sing it with him, I think it 
would do good both to Mrs. Jeram and to me.” 

“ Thank you, my children,” he said, when we had finished. 

That hymn expresses my feelings exactly. And now, 
Leonard, that we’ve got the decks clear of all superfluous 
gear, and are shipshape, and have had supper, and drunk the 
champagne, and thanked God, I will light my pipe, and 
Celia shall mix me the customary — double ration to-night, 
my pretty — and you shall give us the log.” 

‘‘ Shall I begin at the end, sir, or at the beginning ? ” asked 
Leonard. 

“ The end,” said Celia. 

The beginning,” said the Captain, both in a breath. 

What do you say, Mrs. Jeram? ” Leonard asked the old 
lady. 

She said, crossing her hands before her, that, beginning or 
end, it would be all the same to her; that she was quite 
satisfied to see him back again, and the beautifullest boy he 
was that God ever made — ^flash o’ lighting about the place 
just as he always had a done; and she was contented, so long 


266 


BY CELIACS ABBOtm. 


as lie was well and happy, to wait for that story for ever, so 
as she could only look at him. 

What do you say, Laddy ? ” 

“ Ask the Captain,” I said. He commands this ship, but 
Celia is our passenger.” 

Good,” said the Captain. My dear, the ship’s in luck 
to get such a lovely passenger as you. And you shall com- 
mand the ship instead of me, so long as you don’t run her 
ashore. Now then, Leonard, the end of the log first.” 

“ First,” said Leonard, by way of preface to my log — you 
remember this ? ” 

He drew a black ribbon from his neck with a gold ring 
upon it. 

‘‘ A good beginning, my lad — your mother’s ring.” 

‘‘You remember what you said to me when you gave it to 
me ? That it was an emblem of honour and purity among 
women, and that I was to wear it only so long as I could 
deserve it ? ” 

“ Ay — ay. This is a very good beginning of the end, Celia, 
my love. Go on, Leonard.” 

“ I believe I have not forfeited the right to wear it still, 
Sir. 

“I never thought you would,” said the Captain, with 
decision. “ Go on, my lad — keep on paying out the line.” 

“ Then the end is,” he said modestly, “ that I bear Her 
Majesty’s Commission, and am a Captain in the Hundred and 
Twentieth. We disembarked from India a week ago, and 
are now lying in the Old Kent Barracks in this town. Here, 
sir, are my medals — Alma, Inkermann, Sebastopol, and India. 
I have seen service since I left you, and I have gone through 
all the fighting without a wound or a day’s illness.” 

“You are a combatant officer in Her Majesty’s service like 
myself? ” cried the Captain, springing to his feet. 

“ I am Captain Copleston, raised from the ranks by singular 
good fortune ; and five years ago a raw recruit sitting on a 
wooden bench at Westminster, with all my work ahead.” 

“ Like me, he has seen service ; like me, he holds Her 
Majesty’s Commission; like me, he can show his medals.” 


LEONARD TELLS HiS STORV. 


267 


He spread out his hands solemnly. Children, children ” — 
he spoke to Celia and to me — ‘‘ did we ever dare to think 
of this ? 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY. 

T hen Leonard began his story. The room was lit by the 
single pair of candles standing one each side of the 
model of the Asia on the mantleshelf. The Captain sat with 
his pipe in his wooden chair, his honest red face glowing with 
satisfaction, and beside him Celia leaning on his shoulder and 
listening with rapt eyes. It was Dido listening to ^neas. 
‘‘ With varied talk did Dido prolong the night, deep were the 
draughts of love she drank. ‘ Come,’ said she, ‘ my guest, 
and tell us from the first beginning the stratagems of the 
enemy and the hap of our country then, and your own 
wanderings, for this is now the fifth summer that carries you 
a wanderer o’er every land and sea.’ ” As Dido wept to 
hear, so did Celia sigh and sob and catch her breath as 
Leonard told his story. No Gascon, he ; but there are stories 
in which the hero, be he as modest as a wood-nymph, needs 
must proclaim his heroism. And a hero at four-and- twenty 
is ten times as interesting as a hero of sixty. 

** Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story, 

The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 

And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.” 


And what is it when the myrtle and ivy of two-and-twenty 
have real laurels mixed up with them ? 

A philosopher so great that people grovel before his name, 
in a work on the Subjection of Women, makes the astounding 
statement that the influence of woman has always been in the 
direction of peace and the avoidance of war. Pity he had not 
read history by the light of poetry. Was there ever, one asks 
in astonishment, a time when women did not love courage 


268 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUB. 


and strengtH? It was not only in the days of chivalry that' 
young knights fought before the eyes of their mistresses— 

*• Since doughty deeds my lady please. 

Right soon I’ll mount my steed ; 

And strong his arm and fast his seat 
That bears frae me the meed.** 

How could it be otherwise ? We love the qualities which 
most we lack. If women ceased to be gentle, tender, soft — 
what we call womanly — we should leave off falling in love. 
That is most certain. Who ever fell in love with one of the 
unsexed women ? And I suppose if men ceased to be strong 
and courageous, women would leave off accepting and rejoicing 
in their love. Dido drank deep draughts of love listening to 
the tale of uEneas which was, as Scarron many years after- 
wards remarked, extremely long and rather dull. So sat Celia 
listening to a much more wonderful story of battle and endur- 
ance. Or, I thought, she was more like the gentle maid of 
Venice than the proud Phoenician queen. With such sweet- 
ness did Desdemona listen when the valiant Moor told of the 
dangers he had passed. Did she, as John Stuart Mill would 
have us believe, incline to ways of peace? Quite the 
contrary ; this sweet and gentle Desdemona wished that 
Heaven had made her such a man,” and when her lord must 
go to slay the Turk she would fain go with him. My gentle 
Celia wept over the brave soldiers who went forth to fight, and 
again over those who were brought home to die ; but her heart, 
womanlike, was ready to open out to the most valiant. 

‘‘ I went up to town,” he began, with my ten pounds, as 
you all know. When I arrived at Waterloo Station I dis- 
covered for the first time that I had formed no plans how to 
begin. The problem before me was the old difficulty, how a 
man with a reasonable good education and no friends had best 
start so as to become a gentleman. I faced that problem for 
a fortnight trying to find a practical solution. I might 
become a clerk — and end there ; a mechanical copying clerk 
in a City office ! ” 

Faugh ! ” said the Captain. 

Or an usher in a school— and end there.” 


LEONAED TELLS HIS STORY. 


269 


Fudge ! ’’ said the Captain. 

‘‘ Or a strolling actor, and trust to chance to make a name 
for myself.’’ 

“ Pshaw ! ” said the Captain. 

“ There were men, I knew, who made money by writing for 
the papers. I thought I might write too, and I found out 
where they mostly resorted, and tried to talk to them. But 
that profession, I very soon discovered, wanted other qualities 
than I possessed. Laddy might have taken to writing ; but 
it was not my gift.” 

‘‘ Right,” said the Captain. ‘‘ Laddy, you remember the 
story of my old messmate who once wrote a novel. ’Twas his 
ruin, poor fellow. Never lifted his head afterwards. Go on, 
Leonard.” 

‘^All the time I was looking about me the money, of 
course, was melting fast. I might have made it last longer, 
I dare say ; but I was ignorant, and got cheated. One morn- 
ing I awoke to the consciousness that there was nothing 
left at all except the purse. Well, sir, I declare that I was 
relieved. The problem was solved, because I knew then that 
the only line possible for me was to enlist. I went down to 
Westminster and took the shilling. Of course I was too 
proud to enlist under any but my own name. Going a 
soldiering is no disgrace.” 

‘‘ Right,” said the Captain. 

‘‘W^ell,” he went on, ‘^it is no use pretending I was 
happy at first, because the life Was hard, and the companion- 
ship was rough. But the drill came easy to me who had 
seen so many drills upon the Common, and, after a bit, I 
found myself as good a soldier as any of them. One fretted 
a little under the rules and the discipline ; that was natural 
at first. There seemed too much pipeclay and too little 
personal ease. One or two of the sergeants were unfair on 
the men too, and bore little spites. Some of the oflScers 
were martinets ; I oSended one because I refused to become 
a servant.” 

You a servant, Leonard ! ” cried Celia. 

He laughed. 


2?0 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


The officers like a smart lad ; but it was w/Zc to be a valet 
that I enlisted, and I refused, as a good many others refused. 
Our lads were mostly sturdy Lancashire boys, proud of being 
soldiers, but had not enlisted to black other men’s boots. It 
makes me angry now — which is absurd — to think that I 
should have been asked to become a lackey. Well, it was a 
hard life, that in the ranks. Not the discipline, nor the 
work, nor the drill — though these were hard enough. It 
was the roughness of the men. There were one or two 
gentlemen among us — one fellow who had been an officer in 
the Rifles — but they were a bad and hopeless lot, who kept 
up as best they could the vices which nad ruined them. 
They were worse than any of the rough rollicking country- 
side lads. I can’t say I had much room for hope in those 
days, Celia.” 

She reddened, but said nothing. I remembered, suddenly, 
what he might mean. 

Things looked about as black for a few months as they 
well could. Rough work, rough food, rough campaigning. 
I thought of Coleridge and his adventures as a private, but 
he turned back, while I, for there was nothing else to do — 
resolved to keep on. And then, bit by bit, one got to like 
it. For one thing, I could do all sorts of things better than 
most men — my training with the Poles came in there — it 
was found that I could fence : it got about that I played 
cricket, and I was put in the eleven — to play in the matches 
of the regiment, officers and men together ; once, when we 
had a little row with each other, it was found that I could 
handle my fists, which always gains a man respect. And 
then they came to call me Gentleman Jack ; and, as I heard 
afterwards, the officers got to know it, and the Colonel kept 
his eye upon me. Of course one may wear the soldier’s 
iacket very well without falling into any of the pits which 
are temptations to these poor fellows, so that it was easy 
enough getting the good conduct stripe, and to be even 
made corporal. The first proud day, however, was that 
when I was made a sergeant, with as good a knowledge of 
my work, I believe, as any sergeant in the Line.” 


LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY. 


271* 


Mrs. Jeram shook her head. 

‘^More,” she said, ‘‘ much more.” 

A sergeant,” said Leonard. It sounds so little now, 
but to me, then, it seemed so much. The first real step 
upwards out of the ruck. The old dream that I should 
return triumphant somehow was gone long since, or it was 
a dream that had no longer any faith belonging to it. And 
I began to say to myself that to win my way after two 
years to a sergeant’s stripes was perhaps as much honour as 
Providence intended for me.” 

The Captain murmured something about mysterious ways. 
Then he patted Celia’s head tenderly, and begged Leonard to 
keep on his course. 

‘‘Well,” said Leonard, “you have heard how the great 
luck began. It was just before the Crimean War that I got 
the stripes. We were among the first regiments ordered. 
How well I remember embarking at this very place, half 
afraid, half hoping, to see you all, but I did not.” 

“We were there, Leonard,” said Celia, “ when the first 
troops embarked. I think I remember them all going.” 

“ It is a solemn thing,” Leonard went on, “ going off to 
war. It is not only that your life is to be hazarded — every 
man hazards his life in all sorts of ways as much as on a 
battlefield — but you feel that you are going to help in adding 
another chapter to the history of the world.” 

“ Ay,” said the Captain. “ History means war.” 

“Let us pass over the first two or three months. We 
went to Varna, where we lost many men needlessly by 
cholera, waiting till the Generals could make up their minds. 
I suppose they could not avoid the delay, but it was a bad 
thing for the rank and file, and we were all right glad 
when the orders came to embark for the Crimea. We were 
amongst the earliest to land, and my first experience of 
fighting was at Alma. One gets used to the bullets after a 
bit ; but the first time — you know. Captain ” 

The Captain nodded. 

“ After Alma we might, as we know very well, have 
pushed straight on to Sebastopol. I doubt whether that 


272 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUK 


would have finished the war, which had to be fought out 
somewhere. Eussia had to learn that an immense army is 
not by itself proof of immense power. And so it was just 
as well, I believe, that we moved as we did. 

‘‘You know all about the battles — the Alma, Inkermann, 
Balaclava, and the rest. Our fellows went through most of 
the fighting, and, of course, I with the rest. The hardest 
day was Inkermann. We had just come in at daybreak 
from the trenches, where we had been on duty for four-and- 
twenty hours, when we were turned out to fight in the fog 
and rain. We fought in our greatcoats — well — all that is 
history. But the days of battle were red letter days for all 
of us, and what tried us most was the inaction, and the 
dreary waiting work in the trenches. And yet it was that 
work which got me my commission. 

You know what it was we had to do. Before the Eedan 
and the Malakoff were our batteries, the French attack on 
the Mamelon and the Malakoff was on our right. Separat- 
ing our right from our left attack was the valley which they 
called the Valley of the Shadow of Death, along which they 
carried the wounded, and where the Eussian shells, which 
went over the Twenty-one Gun Battery, fell and rolled till the 
place was literally paved with shells. It was a dangerous 
way by which to carry wounded men, and at night the troops 
went down by the Woronzow Eoad. It was easy work 
comparatively in the battery ; you could see the shells flying 
over, and long before they fell you had plenty of time to 
dodge behind the next traverse; after a while, too, a man 
got to know exactly if a cannot-shot was making in his 
direction ; sometimes the bombardment went on for days on 
both sides without any apparent result. There was the 
Naval Brigade — you would have liked to see them. Captain, 
in the Twenty-one Gun Battery under Captain Peel, the 
coolest officer in the whole navy — they were handier with 
the guns and a great deal readier than our men. 

“ In front of the battery were the trenches, and in 
advance of the trenches were the rifle-pits. You could see 
before you the venomous little Eussian pits out of which so 


LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY. 


273 


many brave fellows were killed, dotted about with sandbags, 
and where the Eussians lay watching our men working from 
parallel to parallel, and in the zig-zags. There was one 
rifle-pit in particular — I shall come to it directly — which 
gave us more annoyance than any other, on account of its 
position. It was close to the Quarries. The fire from it 
interfered with the approach of our trenches, and we had 
lost our men in numbers in the advanced sap at this point. 
It was for the moment the hete noir of our engineer officers. 
Of course, you have read in the papers what sort of work we 
have had in the trenches. On a quiet night, when the 
batteries were silent and the weather fair, it was pleasant 
enough. We sat round a fire smoking, telling yarns, or 
even sleeping, but always with the gun in readiness. In 
wet and bad weather it was a different thing, however. 
Kemember that we only had ammunition boots, made by 
contract, which gave out after a week. The mud got trodden 
about deeper and deeper, till it was pretty well up to the 
knees : and when snow fell on top of it, and rain on top of 
that, and all became a wet pool of thick brown mud, it was 
about as lively work as wading up and down the harbour at 
low tide, even if you did happen to have a rabbit,” that is, 
one of the coats lined with white fur. And if it was a hot 
night you had the pleasure of listening to the cannonade, 
and could see nothing on the Russian side but the continuous 
flash of the guns. And there was always the excitement of 
a possible sortie. 

‘‘We went out for night work in the trenches with 
heavy hearts, I can tell you, and many a man wished it were 
day again, and he was back in safety. We grew every day 
more badly off, too. Not only did the boots give out, but 
the greatcoats dropped to pieces, and the commissariat fell 
short. You have heard all that story. Jack of the Naval 
Brigade did not mind so much as regards the greatcoats, 
because he could patch and mend. He used to sell his slops 
for brandy, and cobble his old garments with the brown 
canvas of the sandbags. But the redcoats were not so handy 
— I have often thought it a great pity that our fellows don’t 

S 


274 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


imitate the sailors, and learn how to do things for them- 
selves — we suffered terribly. That you know, too ; and any 
national conceitedness about the pluck of our fellows in 
fighting so well under such conditions has to be pulled up 
by the thought that what we did the French and liussians 
did, too. After all, there is no such thing as one nation 
being braver than another.” 

Our sailors were stronger than the French,” said the 
Captain. When it came to pounding with the big guns, 
they held out longer.” 

Let me come to my piece of great good fortune,” Leonard 
went on, ‘‘ or I shall be talking all night. I have told you 
of the rifle-pit by the Quarries which caused us such a lot of 
trouble. Now I am going to tell you how I took it. It was 
an afternoon in April 1855. We were in the trenches; 
there had been joking with a lot of ‘ griffs,’ young recruits 
just out from England; the men used to show them the 
immense wooden spoons with which the Eussian soldiers eat 
their coarse black bread soaked in water, and declare, to 
Johnny Kaw’s terror, that the Russians had mouths to cor- 
respond. At that time the fighting between rifle-pits was 
the great feature of the siege, and to take a rifle-pit was one 
of the most deadly things possible, as it was also the most 
important. The ^griffs’ went down to the most advanced 
trench ; some of them had never been under fire before, and 
they were naturally nervous. Just after grog time — their 
grog had been taken down to them — a heavy firing began, 
and one of those curious panics which sometimes seize some 
veteran soldiers attacked these boys, and they bolted; left 
the trench and skulked back along the zig-zag, declaring 
that the enemy was out in force. That was nonsense, and 
I was ordered down with a dozen men to take their place. 
My fellows, I remember, chuckled at finding the grog still 
there, and made short work of it. 

‘‘We had not been in the trench very long before a sortie 
in force actually took place. We were in front of the Eedan ; 
before us, under the Redan, stood the pit of which I have 
told you ; on the right was the Malakoff. Suddenly a can- 


LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY. 


275 


nonade d^enfer began from the Mamelon and the Malakoff, 
and we began to suspect that something was going to happen ; 
and then, between the two forts, we saw the advance of the 
great Russian sortie. To our great joy, they turned to the 
left, in the direction of the French. While we looked, a 
thought came into my head — an inspiration. I reflected 
that the holders of the enemy’s rifle-pit would very likely be 
watching their own sortie, and that now was the moment to 
make an attempt. I took half-a-dozen of our men ; we crept 
out of cover, and then, without a word, rushed across the 
ground between. It was as I thought : the Russians never 
saw us coming : they were watching their own friends, and 
we were on them — a dozen of them — before they knew what 
had happened. It was hand to hand fighting, but we were 
the assailants. You know, Captain, it is always better to be 
in the attacking force. I cannot give you the details ; but 
in less time than it takes me to tell the story, the Russians 
were hors de comlat and the rifle-pit was ours. Then came 
the turning of the position. You understand, Celia, that 
the rifle-pit was a little advanced kind of redoubt, consisting 
of perhaps a dozen gabions filled with earth and topped with 
sand-bags, enough to shelter two or three dozen men. These 
were of course all placed in front, towards the enemy. We 
had to reverse the position, and place them towards the 
Redan. By this time we were observed,, and shots began to 
fly about. That was the most dangerous moment of my life. 
We worked steadily and swiftly ; tearing up the gabions, 
lugging the sand-bags round, getting such protection as 
we could while we worked. I do not know how long it 
lasted, but by the time we had finished there was only my- 
self and one other left, and he was wounded in the right 
wrist. But the rifle pit was ours, and our men in the trench 
behind were cheering like madmen,” . 


276 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


LEONARD CONTINUES HIS STORY, 


EOXARD stopped for a moment. The Captain’s eyes 



-Li were kindling with the light of battle, Celia’s with the 
light of admiration. 

It did not take long to do. It takes no time to tell. 
The whole thing was a happy accident ; but is was the one 
fortunate moment of my life. Our men, watching from the 
trenches, cheered again ; a rush was made, and that rifle-pit 
never went back to the Russians.” 

‘‘They ought to have given you the Victoria Cross, Leo- 
nard,” I cried. 

“ No, no,” he replied, “that was given for braver actions 
than mine. Captain Bouchier got it for taking the ‘ Ovens, 
a rifle-pit which could hold a couple of hundred ; such gallant 
fellows as Private Beckle, of the 41st, who stood over the 
body of his wounded Colonel against a dozen of the enemy — 
those are the things that make a man V. 0 . As for me, I 
was more than rewarded, as you shall hear. 

“ When we came off trench duty, and were marched to 
our own quarters, I was sent for by the Colonel. You may 
judge what I felt when he told me, after speaking of the 
affair in the kindest manner, that he should take care it was 
properly reported. He was better than his word, because 
the next day he ordered me to attend in the morning at 
Lord Raglan’s head-quarters. I went up in trembling, but 
I had no occasion to fear. All the Generals were there, for 
a Council was to be held that day.. General Burgoyne, when 
I was called in, very kindly explained to the Chief the im- 
portance of this rifle-pit, and how its occupation by our men 
would facilitate matters in our advanced approaches towards 
the Redan, and then he told Marshal Pelissier and Omar 
Pasha, in French and in the handsomest terms, what I had 
done. Lord Raglan spoke a few words to my Colonel, and 
then he said, in his quiet, steady way, what I shall never 
forget. — 


LEONARD CONTINUES HIS STORY. 


277 


^ Sergeant Coplestone, you have done a gallant action, 
and I hear a good report of you. I shall recommend you to 
the Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Ohief for promotion. I 
am sure you will not disgrace Her Majesty’s Commission.’ 

“ I could not speak — indeed, it was not for me to speak. 
I saluted, and retired. Those words of the gallant old Chief 
— and that scene — I can never forget.” 

‘^Tell us,” said Celia, ^^what he was like. Lord Raglan?” 

He was a grand old man,” said Leonard, with a grave 
face, squarely cut about the chin, overhanging brows, deep- 
set eyes, and wavy white hair, gone off at the temples ; his 
nose was aquiline, and the expression of his face was one of 
great beauty. Every one trusted him, the French and Turks 
as much as the English. He had left one arm in the Penin- 
sular War thirty years before, and he was about sixty-nine 
years of age. He was never so happy, his staff used to say, 
as when he was under fire, and yet he was careful of his 
soldiers’ lives. What killed him was disappointment at his 
failure of the i8th June. He wanted to wipe out the 
memory of Waterloo from the minds of French and English 
by a victory as brilliantly attained by both armies side by 
side on the anniversary of that battle. It was a muddle and 
a mess. What was to be the grand success of the campaign 
proved the most serious reverse that the allied armies ex- 
perienced in the Crimea. Out of five general officers com- 
manding columns four were killed or mortally wounded, and 
out of one small force fifteen hundred gallant fellows were 
killed on that terrible day. Death was very busy with us 
just then. General Estcourt, Adjutant- General, a splendid 
man, and worthy companion in arms with Lord Raglan, died 
a week later. Captain Lyons, the son of Sir Edmund, died 
about the same day ; on Thursday, the 28th, the Chief himself 
expired; and Colonel Vico, the French Aide-de-Camp attached 
to the English head -quarters, died also after this event, 
showing the depressing influence of even a temporary defeat 
on the best of men. Even one of the interpreters sickened 
and sank. It was a sort of murrain among those at head- 
quarters. 


278 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


“Well,” Leonard went on after a pause, “that is all news- 
paper news. What the papers could not tell you was the 
grief of both armies and the profound sensation caused by 
Lord Eaglan’s death. There may have been better generals 
in the history of England’s wars, but there never was one 
more loved and trusted. His life was perfectly simple ; his 
headquarters contained nothing but camp furniture, a table 
on trestles, a red table-cloth, camp chairs, and no carpets ; 
he was up at all hours, and he was without fear. 

“ Of the other generals I think Pelissier was the best. He 
was a little dumpy man, with a thick neck, and he was a 
little too fond of hurling his men at the enemy, but he did 
fight and fought well. They made him Duke of Malakoff 
afterwards, which is as if we were to make a man Duke of 
Jones.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because the Malakoff was named after a man who had 
once kept a tavern on the spot. Malakoff was a purser in 
the Russian Navy, and being kicked out of the service for 
drinking, swindling, and smuggling, — this last he did in 
smuggling ship’s stores, — came ashore and started a drink- 
shop outside Sebastopol, where he could combine profit with 
the pursuit of his favourite occupation. And as his drink 
was cheaper than could be got anywhere else, for he had the 
advantage of his old smuggling experiences in the laying in 
of his stores, the place became a favourite resort of the 
Russian sailors when they came ashore to get drunk. After 
a while, the stony hill with Malakoff’s sheebeen upon it 
became Malakoff’s Redoubt. Sturdy Pelissier, however, did 
not look much like a duke, as we picture dukes. When 
Soyer the cook came out, he was so like the General that we 
used to ask which was the cook and which was the General. 
Only Soyer wore more gold lace, and distinguished himself 
in that way. 

“ My commission came out before the death of Lord Raglan. 
You may fancy what a trial it was to me, on that day, not 
to be able to write home, and tell you all about it. I did 
write, however j I wrote a full history of all I had done, with 


LEONAUD CONTINUES HIS STOEY. 


279 


a note inside that it was to be sent to you, Captain, in case 
I fell. My brother officers gave me a hearty welcome, and 
we had a big dinner — as big as the materials at our disposal 
allowed, the day I joined — so to speak. I have been to 
many a better feast since, but none at which I was so entirely 
happy. I remember that the things to eat were scanty, as 
often happened in the year 185 5 — but I was eating what there 
was among gentlemen, with Her Majesty’s commission in 
my pocket. We had no candlesticks fit to show on a mess 
table, but a dozen bayonets, with candles in them, stuck in 
the table, made a brilliant illumination.” 

Leonard paused again. 

The dinner was the last that some of us were to take 
together. On the i8th of June came our repulse at the 
Eedan, when we lost half-a-dozen from our mess. 

‘^As soon as quiet days came I took an opportunity of 
telling the Colonel my little history — how I was ignorant of 
my parentage, how I was a gutter child, wandering about 
the streets, living on the charity of a kind and good woman, 
berself poor, and how the Captain picked me up, educated 
me — and allowed me to go out into the world to seek my 
fortune ; how I was to get home after five years, if I could, 
to report myself, and how my dream had been to go home, 
somehow, as a gentleman.” 

Always the best of old Captains,” said Celia, patting the 
old man’s cheek. 

‘‘Nonsense, my dear,” said the Captain. “Best of boys, 
you mean. Go on, Leonard.” 

“The Colonel will call on you to-morrow, sir. You will 
remember that he has been my constant and most steady 
friend and adviser throughout.” 

“ Ay — ay,” said the Captain. “ I shall find something to 
say to him. Go on.” 

“ Of all the fifty fellows that made up our mess when I got 
the colours, there are not a dozen left now. The winters, the 
trench work, the night- work, and its after effects, killed those 
whom the Eussian bullets spared. They fell around me, and 
I passed through it unharmed; we were in almost everything, 


28 o 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


and I think every man in the regiment did his duty, sir, as 
well as any of your old sea captains/' 

I doubt it not,” said the Captain ; we belong to a fight- 
ing people.” 

And so we finished that war and came home again. I 
was a Lieutenant when we landed at this very port and 
marched up the street, colours flying, amid the cheers of the 
people. I looked out for you again, sir, and for you, Celia 
and Laddy, but could not see any of you in the crowd. It 
was very hard not to call and tell you of my fortune, harder 
still not to ask for news of you, but only three years of the 
five were passed, and I had my promise to keep. We went 
to Chobham, and from there, after six months rest, were 
ordered out to India. 

‘‘We will talk about the Mutiny another time. I got my 
company, as I had got my step, six months later, by death 
vacancies. The same good fortune followed me in India as 
in the Crimea. The sun did not strike me as it struck some 
of ours. I caught no fever or cholera which killed some, and 
I got through the fighting without a scratch ; and the only 
thing that troubled me towards the end was the fear that I 
might not get home in time. We had a long and tedious 
passage, but we arrived at last, and I have kept my promise 
and my appointment, Celia.” 

After the first surprise the Captain took the stories of the 
fighting with unconcern. In the matter of battles he was a 
fatalist, like all men who have been in action. Every bullet 
has its billet; there is a time for every man ; skulkers always 
get the worst of it — these were the simple axioms of his 
nautical creed. That Leonard should have gained a commis- 
sion was to him so surprising an event as to swallow up all 
minor things. That he should have borne himself bravely 
was only what he expected, and that he should have been 
spared to return was the special act of Providence in return 
for many prayers for which he had given thanks already. 

But to Celia — 

“ ’Twas passing strange ; 

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.*’ 


LEONARD CONTINUES HIS STORY. 


281 


Leonard was no longer her old friend, her playmate, the 
boy to whom she had looked as a girl for protection, help, 
and guidance ; he was now a man who had looked in the face 
of Death and quailed not. For the first time she talked with 
one who had fought in the way which had, so to speak, 
surrounded her later years. 

She took the medals again, Leonard completed his tale, 
and kissed them reverently v, ith glittering eyes before she 
gave them back to him. 

“ Leonard/' she said, when Laddy and I used to wonder 
where you were, and what you were doing, we never thought 
of this.” 

And when we worked ourselves up into rages about the 
poor army starving in the cold of the Crimea, Ois,” I said, 
‘‘ we never thought that Leonard was among them.” 

“ We were all blind bats,” said the Captain, ‘‘ not to guess 
where he would go and what he would become. The only 
true profession for a gentleman is the profession of arms. 
There's no opening for volunteers in the navy, as there used 
to be, more's the pity. Cloudesley Shovel got on in that 
way, and in the good old times, Leonard, you might have 
risen to be a First Lieutenant by this.” 

‘‘ Are you not satisfied, sir? ” asked Leonard, with a smile. 

Satisfied, my boy ! Celia, my dear, tell him for me what 
we think.” 

Celia blushed very prettily. 

We are so proud and happy, Leonard,” she said, ‘Hhat 
we hardly know what we are saying. In all our talks about 
you we never hoped that you would be able to tell such a tale 
as this.” 

Never,” I repeated. 

‘‘We knew, did we not. Captain, that Leonard would bear 
himself bravely ? ” 

“ Ay, ay,'^ said the Captain, laying his hand on Leonard's 
shoulder, “ that we knew all along. We know sneaks and 
skulkers when we see them. Malingerers carry the truth in 
their faces, and by the same rule we know whom we can trust. 
Leonard and Laddy belong to them.” 


282 


BY CELIACS ARBOUK. 


It was very good of the old fellow to say a word for me. 
Not that I wanted it, but it showed that he was anxious that 
I should not feel left out in the cold. 

‘‘ Go on, Celia, my pretty,” said the Captain ; is there 
any more to say ? ” 

“ No, sir,” Celia replied. ‘‘ Only — only ” And here 

her voice broke down, and her eyes were filled with tears. 
“ Only to thank God, Leonard, again and again and all our 
lives, for keeping you safe through all these dangers, and for 
bringing you back to the Captain and Laddy — and to Mrs. 
Jeram — and to me.” 

Amen,” said the Captain ; “ that’s very well put, Celia, 
my dear ; and if you were to stay here altogether — and I wish 
you would — I should promote you to be chaplain. And now, 
Mrs. Jeram, you and I had better go off to bed, and leave 
these young people to talk as long as they will. It’s past 
twelve o’clock, ma’am. Kiss me, pretty. Laddy, we’ve got 
something to talk about now, you and I, in winter evenings. 
Leonard, my son, good-night.” He rested his hand on 
Leonard’s head. “ I am so glad, my lad ; I am so glad.” 

They went away, and we three were left alone. 

It was a night of full moon, without a cloud in the sky. 
We took our chairs into the garden and sat under the old 
mulberry tree, facing the mill-dam lake, and talked. 

We talked all the brief night, while the bright moon hid 
the stars, and we could only faintly distinguish Charles’ Wain 
slowly moving round the Polar light, until the moon herself 
was paled by the grey of the early morning, and even long 
after the sun had lifted his head above the sky and was 
pouring upon the sheet of water, making the little island re- 
doubt upon it stand out clear cut against the sky, with a 
foreground of deep black shade. 

What had we to talk about ? Our hearts burned within 
us, even like those of the disciples at Emmaus. We three 
who had grown up together and loved each other, — we were 
met again, and all in early man and womanhood, and we loved 
each other still. I, with my jealous eye, watched Celia, and 
could see the sweet shy look that told me, what in^deed I knew 


LEONAKD CONTINUES HIS STORY. 


283 


before, how only a word was wanted to flash a spark into a 
flame, how but a touch was needed before a maiden would 
yield. I saw, too, Leonard’s eyes stealing every moment to 
rest upon her sweet face. It was with a natural pang that I 
saw this. Nobody knew, better than I, that Celia could be 
nothing to me but my dear sister, my true and most trusted 
friend. I had battled with my passion and it was dead. 
Now, I was ashamed of it. Who but Leonard was worthy of 
that sweet girl ? She had no fault, nor has she any still, in 
my eyes. She is altogether incomparable. And who but 
Leonard, our hero, our Perseus, was fit to claim her for his 
own, love her, marry her, and keep her safe in his arms ? Did 
I, sometimes, have thoughts, angry thoughts, of what might 
have been ? Perhaps, we are but human ; but on the whole 
I had learned by that time to look on Celia as my sister. 

From time to time Leonard asked us about ourselves. We 
fenced with his question. It was not the season to parade 
Celia’s troubles, nor mine. We were there to listen to his 
story, to be gladdened by his successes. What good to be 
talking of ourselves when every moment seemed sacred to his 
welcome home ? The broad daylight found us still talking. 
Celia s eyes were brighter, her cheek a little paler. Leonard 
was handsomer, I think, by day than he had seemed by the 
light of our modest pair of candles. I went to the larder, and 
found there a whole chicken, with the Captain’s second bottle 
of champagne, and we had a late supper, or an early break- 
fast, at four, with no one to look at us but the sparrows, who 
peeped over the housetops and chirped to each other that 
there would be a most unusual and festive chance in the way 
of crumbs as soon as the foolish humans should go to bed. 

We should have sat till breakfast-time, but that Leonard 
looked at his watch and sprang to his feet. 

Cis,” he cried, quite in his old tones, ‘‘ do you know what 
time it is ? Half-past five. You mus^ go to bed, if only for 
a couple of hours. Good-night — till nine o’clock.” He held 
her hand in his. And — and — look in your glass when you 
go to your room — and think if you could have expected our 
little Cis to grow into — what you see there.” 


284 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUE. 


She shook her head, but did not answer, only holding out 
her hand timidly. But she was not displeased. 

Then she ran away and left us. 

‘‘ Laddy, old boy,” said Leonard, one doesn’t come home 
to be made much of every day. I can’t sleep if I go to bed. 
What are we to do ? ” 

‘‘ Let us go out to the Castle and bathe, and be back by 
eight when the Captain gets up.” 

“We will, Laddy. How splendid the dear old Captain is 
looking ! Is there anybody like him in the world ? And 

Celia ” Here he stoppedi “ You remember what I told 

you, Laddy, when I went away? Well, I have never for- 
gotten it, and I mean it more than ever.” 


CHAPTEE XXXIL 

A FKIENDLY CHAT. 

“ TTOW fresh it is! And how jolly to be back in the old 
JL J- place ! ” Leonard cried, as we walked out into the 
silent streets. 

Half-past five. The best part of the summer day. There 
was no one stirring yet, save here and there an early house- 
maid brushing away the morning dew upon the doorstep. 
Our feet echoed on the pavement with a clatter from wall to 
wall as if of many hundred feet, and when we spoke it was 
as if our voices were too loud as they reverberated along the 
houses. All just as it had been of old so many times when 
we two boys had run along the streets at six for a swim in 
the sea before school. Nothing changed save that the boy 
who used to run and jump, shouting in the overfiow of 
strength and spirits, rejoicing in the breath of life, was 
become the splendid fellow who strode at my side. Of course 
I was just the same. A sleeping city and two boys going 
out to bathe. Nothing changed. The town asleep, and my 
brain filled with all sorts of weird fancies. I have read of 
deserted and ruined cities in the far-east Syrian plains, on 
the edge of the great and terrible wilderness where the lion 


A FKIENDLY CHAT. 


285 

of prophecy roams round the heaps of Kouyounjik. Some 
of these cities still stand, with their rooms and their stair- 
cases perfect as when the terrified inhabitants fled before 
some conquering Shalmaneser who came from the mysterious 
east destroying as he went. Now there is not a single soul 
left to mourn over the greatness of the past. You may hear 
the cry of the lizard, the shrill voice of the cigale ; your feet 
echo as you stride along the silent footway, and you speak 
in a whisper, for this is an image of Death the conqueror. 
As I go along with Leonard I somehow think of these old 
ruins. There is no connection between a ruined Syrian 
city and a sleeping modern town, except the stillness which 
smites the soul as you pass along deserted pavements between 
houses closed and barred, which might be houses bereft of 
their inhabitants, soulless, empty, haunted. Within, the 
children lying asleep; the little faces flushed with sleep, 
and the little limbs tossed carelessly upon the sheets, the 
wondering eyes just about to waken for the glories and fresh 
joys of another day. Within, the young men and the 
maidens, the old men and the ancient dames, each wrapped 
in the solemn loneliness of sleep, when spirits even of lovers 
dwell apart, while the busy fingers of the restless Fates are 
weaving the many-coloured web and weft of life’s short story. 
What stories behind those shutters ! What dreams in those 
white-blinded rooms! What babble of infant voices to 
welcome the new-born day ! 

What are you thinking of, Laddy ? Dreamer, your eyes 
are always far away. This is just what we used to do years 
ago. Up at six and out across the common for a bathe ! 
And you always dreaming 1 Look I there is the early bird. 
Good-morniug, Molly. Fine morning for doorsteps — good 
for the complexion.” 

Get along 0 ’ your nonsense,” said Molly, not displeased. 

She’s quite right ; you’re an officer now, Leonard, and it 
can’t be allowed any more.” 

Where is your mop, Molly ? ” he went on, with his light, 
boyish laugh. 

Mops have gone out,” I replied, so have pattens.” 


286 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR 


Have they really ? Not the dear old mop that they used 
to trundle up and down in their arms ? Tm sorry for it, 
Laddy. The domestic mop used to be as good a weapon for 
the defence of housemaidenhood as any. And in a seaport 
town, too. Many is the time IVe seen a too demonstrative 
Jack discomfited by a timely dab in the face from a dripping 
mop. Slaps and scratches are poor things compared with a 
dollop of wet mop. Even a Billingsgate broadside cannot 
be so effective. Something might be done, I dare say, with 
a garden hose, but, after all, nothing like a mop and a bucket. 
And even pattens gone, too, — the tinkling patten. I wonder 
no love-sick poet ever celebrated the musical clatter on the 
stones of the housemaid’s patten. These are the losses of 
civilisation, Laddy.” 

We passed through the gate, our heels clanking across the 
iron drawbridge. Beyond the bridge, and between the walls 
and the advanced works, was the guard house, where stood a 
sentry, who saluted us with as much astonishment as disci- 
pline would allow, expressed upon a not remarkably mobile 
set of features. Why should an oflScer, who was not obliged 
to stand at a sentry-box during the small hours, be up and 
out so early ? What good, in such a case, of being an oflScer 
at all ? 

And then we passed the awkward squad on their way 
to goose-step drill. They saluted, too, as we passed. The 
salute of those days was a thing of ceremony — extension of 
right arm, doubling of right elbow, hand square to the fore- 
head, retui'n double, drop of right arm. The Marines did it 
best, regulating the motions from a slovenly and irregular 
movement of the arm for a middy or a mate to a precise and 
clearly directed six-fold ceremonial, ending with a resonant 
slap of the right leg, for superior rank. They knew, the 
Marines, how to signify respect to rank. Any popular officer, 
particularly if he was also an Admiral, was saluted as he 
went down the street with a regular Kentish fire of open- 
handed slaps of right legs. That also is a thing of the past. 

“I was like those honest fellows once,” said our young 
Captain gravely. ^^One of the awkward squad; sentry in 


A FKIENDLY CHAT. 


287 


the barracks ; one of the rank and file ; standing up to be 
drilled and ordered. Well ; it’s not a bad thing for a 
man/’ 

‘^And the officers of the regiment, Leonard; — did that 
make any difference ? ” 

I became at once one of themselves — a brother oflScer. 
What else could their treatment be ? I asked the Colonel as 
a personal favour, to tell them who I was. Every regiment 
has its ‘ rankers ; ’ every ranker his story. I should be a snob 
if I were ashamed of having risen.” 

We crossed the broad common, where all the old furze had 
by this time been cut down and cleared away to make room 
for military evolutions ; and we came to the Castle standing 
upon the edge of the sea. There was not a soul upon the 
beach, not even our old friend the cursing coastguard ; we sat 
down under the slope of stone, for it was now low tide, and 
made ready for a dip. 

‘‘ There go the last fumes of last night’s long talk. Sitting 
up all night, even with Celia, does fog the brain a bit.” Thus 
Leonard, coming out of the water all glorious like Apollo. 
I suppose it is because I am so unshapely that I think so 
much of beauty of form. Then we dressed, and Leonard took 
out a cigar-case, to my astonishment, for somehow I had 
never thought of him in connection with tobacco — heroes of 
imaginations neither smoke nor drink wine, as we all know 
— and then lying back on the shingle, he began to talk 
lazily. 

‘‘I am rather tired of telling about myself, Laddy; it is 
your turn now.” 

Of course I knew it was coming sooner or later. 

You do not expect to hear much about me,” I said. “ I 
am organist at St. Faith’s; that is my oflBcial position, and 
it brings me in six-and-twenty pounds a year. For ten 
shillings a week I hear three services on Sunday and two in 
the week.” 

Poor old boy ! ” said Leonard. Can’t something better 
be got ? ” 

‘‘ I rather like the church work. Then I give lessons in 


288 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


music and singing, and out of them I make about two 
hundred a year more.” 

‘‘ I see. But the house does not seem much improved by 
this enormous accession of wealth.” 

No. The fact is, Leonard, that the Captain takes all the 
money, and I never ask what he does with it. If I made a 
thousand a year I am certain that extravagant old man would 
absorb it all.” 

‘‘Ah ! The crafty old Captain ! Do you think he invests 
it in Russian stock or Turkish bonds ? ” 

“ No. I think he gives it away. Where does he go when 
every morning he disappears for three hours ? Answer me 
that, Captain Leonard.” 

“ He always did it, and he always will. He is an incor- 
rigible old mystery.” 

“In the afternoon he stays at home, unless it is half- 
holiday, when he goes out on the common to see the boys 
play, and talk to them with his hands behind his back. To 
be sure he knows every boy in the town.” 

Leonard laughed. 

“I remember an incident or two — years ago — when we 
were children in the house. There was a woman — she had 
black hair, I know — and she used to come in the evening and 
ask for money. I suppose, from my personal experience, that 
she was drunk one night when she came, and went on — I 
forget what about — like another Jezebel. She wanted money, 
and the Captain was so upset by her inconsiderate conduct 
that he — behaved as the Captain always does.” 

“ What was that ? ” 

“ Went to the Sailing Directions. Remembered that every 
sinner had to be forgiven at least seventy times seven, and 
so added one or more to her score, which I should say must 
have already reached a pretty high total. He gives his 
money all away, Laddy, and if I were you I would not work 
too hard, because he will only give yours away too. The kind 
old man ! What else have you to tell us about yourself? ” 

“I’ve been taking care of Cis,” I said, evading the 
difficulty. 


A FRIENDLY CHAT. 289 

So I saw last night. Good care, Laddy. There never 
was a better brother than you.” 

But he did not know all ; and I could not tell him how 
near I had been, once, to betraying his trust. 

‘‘ Ois — Celia — Oh ! Laddy ! ” He threw away the cigar 
and started to his feet, gazing out to sea. Did Heaven ever 
make a sweeter girl? Did you watch her face last night? 
And her eyes, how they softened and brightened ! ” 

Am I blind, Leonard ? ” 

Did you see how she lit up with pity and sympathy ? 
Laddy, I must win the girl, or I shall not care what happens. 

I have never ceased thinking of her,” he went on; never 
since I left you five years ago. To be sure, when I was a 
private soldier, or even a non-commissioned officer, it seemed 
too absurd to think of her, but when my promotion came, 
then the old thoughts revived. All through the war I 
thought of her. In those dreadful nights when we sat and 
slept in the trenches, knee-deep in trampled mud and melting 
snow, I used to let my thoughts wander back to this old 
place. Always in Celia s Arbour, lying beneath the elms : 
play-acting beside the gun : running up and down the slopes 
with little Cis, wondering what she was like. You with her 
too, of course, vvith your great dreamy eyes and trusty face 
— Laddy and Cis. I suppose it was sentimental, all of it ; 
but I am different from most men. There is no family life 
for you and me to look back on except that. In those days 
— I am not boasting — I had no fear, because it seemed as if 
every day brought me nearer to her, and higher up the 
ladder. In case of death I had a letter written to the 
Captain, enclosing one for you and one for Celia, telling you 
all about it. But I did not die. Then I had to come home 
and be near you, within a hundred miles, and yet not go to 
see you ; that was very hard. When India came I lost my 
old fearlessness, and began to be anxious. It was want of 
faith, I suppose. At all events I escaped, and came out of 
the whole racket unwounded. Laddy, I should be worse 
than an infidel,” he added solemnly, if I did not see in my 
five years of fortune the protection of the Lord.” 


T 


290 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


We pray — we who stay at home — for the safety of those 
who go abroad ; and perhaps our prayers are sometimes 
granted. Is that sentiment, too ? ” I asked. 

He was silent for a little space ; then he shook himself as 
one who would change the current of his thoughts. 

‘‘ Let us go back, old boy ; the Captain will be up by this 
time. And now tell me more about yourself ; there must be 
more to tell than that you have become a musician. Haven’t 
you fallen in love, Laddy ? ” 

Fallen in love ! Who is there to fall in love with a man 
like me ? Look at my shadow, Leonard.” 

It was a gruesome-looking shadow, with high back, and 
head, thrust forward. I think that if Peter Schlemihl had 
been hump-backed he would have made an easier bargain for 
the rolling up and putting away of his shadow. A small 
annuity, paid quarterly, would have been considered ample 
on the part of the puuhaser. And as for awkward questions 
— well — there are secrets in every family, and it would soon 
be understood that the absence of shadow must not be re- 
marked upon. I only know that my own was a constant 
shame and humiliation to me. Unless I walked with my 
face to the sun there was no getting out of the deformity. 

Bah ! You and your shadow. Laddy, look in the glass. 
You have eyes that would steal away the heart of Penelope, 
and a musical voice, and you are a genius.” 

‘‘ Nonsense. I am only a plain musician, and as for falling 
in love, have I not been every day with Celia ? How could 
I fall in love with any other girl when I had known her ? ” 

‘‘That is true,” he said reflectively. “That is quite 
true. Who could? She is altogether sweet and lovely. 
After dreaming of her every day for five years I am afraid of 
her. And you have been with her, actually with her, for 
five years.” 

I think he guessed my secret, for he laid his hand affec- 
tionately on my shoulder. 

“ Cis and I are brother and sister,” I said ; “ that you 
know very well. But you are right to be afraid of her. Men 
ought to be afraid of such a girl. Only the priest, you 


A FRIENDLY CHAT. 


291 


know/’ I added, following up a little train of allegory that 
arose in my mind, can touch the Ark of the Lord.” 

‘‘You mean ” 

“ I mean that a man ought to be holy before he ventures 
upon holy ground.” 

“ Yes ; you are a Puritan, Laddy, but you are quite right. 
I have been saying to myself ever since she left us, ‘ She is 
only a woman after all.’ And yet that does not seem to 
bring her any closer to me. It would bring all other women 
closer, but not Celia.” 

“ She is only a woman to two men, Leonard, and to those 
two a woman of flesh and blood, with all sorts of hopes and 
fancies. One of these is myself, her brother, and the other 
— will be the man she loves. But there is a great trouble, 
and you ought to learn what it is.” 

I told him, in as few words as I could manage, part of 
the story. It seemed a breach of trust to tell him what I 
knew — though Celia only feared it — that this German had 
a hold upon Mr. Tyrrell which he threatened to use ; but I 
was obliged to let him understand that Mr. Tyrrell wished 
her to accept the man, and I told how Celia suffered from 
the assiduity with which he followed her about, went to 
church with her, was everywhere seen with her, and how he 
hoped gradually to overcome, by quiet perseverance, the 
dislike which she, as well as her friends, would at first show 
to the marriage. 

“ He has not yet pressed for a reply,” I concluded, ‘‘ But 
he will very soon now.” 

“ Why now ? ” 

I omit the remarks (which were un-Christian) made by 
Leonard during my narrative. 

“ Because you have come home. Because he will find out 
that Celia sat up all night with us talking. Because he will 
see her looking happier and brighter, and will suspect the 
cause.” 

“ The cause, Laddy ? Do you mean ” 

“ I mean nothing but that Celia is glad to see you back 
again, and if you expected anything less you must be very 


292 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


forgetful of little Cis Tyrrell. If you expected anything 
more, Leonard — why — perhaps you had better speak to her 
yourself.” 

“ I remember Herr Raumer,” Leonard went on. He was 
always hanging about the- streets with his blue spectacles 
and his big white moustache. I remember him almost as 
early as I remember anything. They used to say he was an 
exile from Germany for Republican opinions. During that 
year I spent learning French and Russian in the Polish 
Barrack he took an opportunity of speaking to me, was very 
friendly once or twice, and took a great interest in the Poles. 
I remember he wanted to know what they talked about. I 
wonder if he is a Russian spy ? ” 

Nonsense, Leonard. He dislikes the Russians.” 

Does he ? My dear Laddy, you know nothing about the 
country whose people are so pleasant, and whose government 
is so detestable. Russian spies are everywhere. The Russian 
Secret Service is like a great net spread over the whole world; 
they are the Jesuits of politics. Herr Raumer may not be 
one of the black gang, but he may be; and if he isn’t, I 
should like to find out what keeps a German in this place, 
where we have got a great dockyard, and where improve- 
ments and new inventions are always being tried and talked 
of, where there are several regiments, half our fleet, and a 
lot of Poles. Do you think it is love of the town ? ” 

‘‘I suppose he is used to it,” I said. 

What kind of man is he ? ” 

He is a cynic. He professes to live for his own enjoy- 
ment, and nothing else. Says the rest is humbug. I have 
never heard him say a generous thing, or acknowledge a 
generous motive. Yet he talks well, and one likes to be 
with him.” 

‘‘ I shall call upon him,” said Leonard. As for his own 
enjoyment and the selfish theory of philosophy, a good many 
Germans affect that kind of thing. They think it philo- 
sophical and intellectual, and above their fellow-creatures, 
to be wrapped in a cloak of pui*e selfishness. Well, Laddy, 
unless Celia wishes it ” 


A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 


293 


She does not wish it.” 

She shall not throw herself away upon this man. Great 
Heavens ! my beautiful Celia,” he said, “ my beautiful Celia 

to be thrown to an old ” He checked himself. ‘‘No 

use getting angry. But if there is no other way of stopping 
it, we’ll carry her off, Laddy, you and I together, and stand 
the racket afterwards. I can’t very well call him out and 
shoot him. I don’t mean that I see at present how it is to 
be prevented, but we will find out.” 

“ Perseus,” I said, “ had to borrow of other people two or 
three little things to help him when he went on that expedi- 
tion of his. You had better take the Captain, as well as 
myself, into your confidence. Here we are at home, and 
there is the jolly old Captain at the door, beaming on us like 
the morning sun.” 

“Come in, boys,” he shouted, “come in to breakfast. 
Celia is ready, and so am I. Ho ! ho ! I am so glad, Leonard. 
I am so glad.” 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 

T hese were the days of a grand triumphal procession, in 
which we led our hero about to be congratulated by 
his friends. There were not many of these, it is true. That 
made it all the better, because the chances of the hateful 
passion of envy being aroused were lessened. To be sure, 
there were none who could be envious. Leonard’s road to 
honour is a Royal road, open to all. But it is beset with 
difficulties. Stout is the heart and strong the will of him 
who dares to tread that pipe-clayed and uncertain way. 
None of the boys with whom we had been at school knew 
Leonard as a friend, or even as an old acquaintance. The 
reserved school boy who fought his way to freedom from 
molestation was not likely now to search out the lads who 
had once stung his proud soul by references to the price of 
soap. They were now chiefly engaged in promoting the 


294 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


commercial interests of the town, and would have saluted the 
young officer, had they known who he was, hat in hand. 

We went round, therefore, among our little circle of friends. 

Mr. Broughton promptly invited us to dinner. 

There were present at the banquet — to furnish it forth all 
the resources of the reverend gentleman’s cellar were put 
under contribution — the Captain, Mr. Pontifex, Leonard, 
and myself. The dinner was simple, consisting of salmon, 
lamb and chicken, cutlets, with early peas and asparagus. 
A little light Sauterne, which his reverence recommended 
in preference to sherry, as leaving the palate clean for the 
port, accompanied the meal. There was also champagne, 
which, he said, was a wine as Catholic as the Athanasian 
Creed, inasmuch as it goes equally well with a simple 
luncheon of cold chicken, and with the most elaborate 
Gaudy. After dinner, solely in deference to the uncorrupted 
digestion of youth, he ordered a dish of strawberries. 

It is not the right time to eat them,” he said, in a voice 
almost as solemn for the occasion as that of Mr. Pontifex. 

Their proper place is after breakfast. A good dinner 
biscuit would be better. But young men expect these 
things. When you and I were undergraduates, Pontifex, 
we liked them.” And then, while we absorbed the straw- 
berries, he arose and brought from a sideboard, with great 
care and with his own hands, four decanters of port. 

They stood all in a row before him, a label hanging from 
each. He put out his hands over them like a priest pro- 
nouncing a blessing. 

‘^We ought, Brother Pontifex,” he said, ‘Ho have a form 
of thanksgiving for port.” 

“When I was a young man,” said Mr. Pontifex, with a 
sigh, “ I was called by some of my reckless companions — 

ahem ! — Two-Bottle Pontifex Two-Bottle Pontifex — 

such was my appetite for port-wine at that period ! I am 
now never allowed by Mrs. Pontifex — alas — even to taste 
the — ahem ! — the beverage.” 

“ This,” said Mr. Broughton, affectionately caressing one 
of the decanters, “is a bottle of 1820. I sincerely wish, 


A Triumphal ploclssioh. 


^9S 


Leonard, that I could entertain the hope of bequeathing you 
a few dozens in token of regard to my old pupil. But I 
have not more than enough for my own use, always suppos- 
ing that I reach the allotted time of three score years and 
ten. It is generous still, this wine.” He poured out a 
glass, and held it to the light. Mark the colour ; refresh 
yourself with this bouquet; taste the noble wine.” He 
suited the action to the recommendation. What a combi- 
nation of delight for all the senses at once ! Nature never 
raised a sweeter colour — a more divine fragrance — a more 

Olympian taste than she has united ” 

Under Providence, Brother Broughton,” said Mr. Pontifex, 
shaking his head. 

‘ — united in this one glass of the finest wine ever grown. 
How my good grandfather, the Bishop — whose piety was 
only equalled by his taste for port — would have enjoyed this 
moment ! The day before he died, his chaplain, on pouring 
him out his single glass — the Bishop was then too feeble 
for more — said, ^ We shall drink, my lord, in a better world, 
a more delicious wine.’ He was a learned and sound divine, 
but young, and with a palate comparatively untrained. ‘We 
cannot,’ said the good old Bishop. ‘ Better wine than this 
is not to be had.’ ” 

“ The next decanter,” he went on with a sigh for the good 
Bishop’s memory, “is a bottle of 1834. I do not know 
aright how to sing its praises. After what I have said of 
1820 I would only say — 

‘ 0 matre pulchra, filia pulchrior ! * 

You shall taste it presently. Thirteen years later, we come 
to 1 847. What a year for port ; and to think that it should 
be followed — that year of generous and glorious vintages — 
by the year of rebellion and social upheaving ! As if 
Heaven’s choicest blessings w^ere altogether thrown away 
upon ungrateful man! This last is a bottle of 1851, now 
four years in bottle and still a little too full. The four 
bottles do not make altogether a bottle a head — nothing to 
your old days, Pontifex — but we three are advanced in 


296 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUB. 


years, I am sorry to think, and the boys have been trained in 
a different school. Perhaps a better one. 

“And now,” he resumed, looking round with smiles twink- 
ling in his eyes and playing over his jolly red face, “a Toast. 
The health of Leonard — our brave lad who has come home 
from the wars with medals and honours which make us all 
proud of him. It was in this room, my dear boy, that you 
first read the wars of antiquity told in heroic verse. It was 
here that your ear and your heart became attuned to the 
glorious aspects of heroism, and the din of battle. Eemember, 
when you have some of your own, that nothing succeeds like 
putting a boy through the good old mill of Homer and Virgil. 
You were educated by me for your work, not by cramming 
yourself with a bundle of scientific facts, which they would 
persuade us is what soldiers want, but by the deeds of the 
great men of Greece and Eome. You have not forgotten 
Diomede, I hope.” 

“ No, sir,” said Leonard. “ Nor Sarpedon, nor the cowardly 
Paris, nor Turnus, nor Nisus and Euryalus — nor any of them. 
Who can forget the jolly old battles ? ” 

“ When I was a schoolboy,” Mr. Pontifex said solemnly. 
“ I once fought a battle with another boy in which, I re- 
member, I was worsted, owing to the superior strength of 
my antagonist. This breach of rules was subsequently dis- 
covered by the master of the school, and I was summoned 
before his presence. As I had nothing to say in — ahem ! — 
vindication of the offence, I was instantly condemned to be — 
ahem ! — in fact — birched ! The — the necessary preliminaries 
having been performed, they proceeded to search for the rod, 
an instrument which was kept for that purpose under wet 
straw in the garden. When this had been found, I sustained 
a most fearful infliction.” 

We all laughed at this graphic reminiscence of a school 
battle and its consequences, and Mr. Broughton bade us 
charge our glasses and begin the ’34. Mr. Pontifex grew 
more solemn as well as paler under the influence of the port 
as the evening went on, and Mr. Broughton more purple in 
the face, more jolly, and more animated. I had frequently 


A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 


297 


seen this opposite effect of wine upon both clergymen. After 
the second bottle, the wine passed chiefly from one to the 
other, because the Captain had already exceeded a double 
ration, and Leonard was moderate in his libations. 

In the course of the evening, the Perpetual Curate of St. 
Faith’s pronounced a eulogium on the world generally, on 
those who know how to enjoy life, and on the good things 
life has to give. It was in the middle of the last bottle, and 
his face was a deep purple, while Mr. Pontifex, perfectly 
white, sat with his long upper lip grown half an inch 
longer, and the solemnity of Khadamanthus upon his 
brow. 

What good things they are,” he said enthusiastically, 
‘Ho those few who know how to cultivate their senses. 
Wine such as this; the meats and fruits which come in their 
season ; music such as Laddy here can play ; the poetry of 
those divine men who made the language of a little penin- 
sula survive for ever to fill our hearts with wonder and 
delight ; the beauty of women to take us out of ourselves 
when we are young — you have been in love, Captain ? ” 

The Captain laughed. 

“ Was there ever a sailor,” he asked, “ who has not been 
in love ? And was there ever a lover like a sailor ? What 
does the song say ? ” The Captain lifted up his pipe. 


“ * And the toast — for ’twas Saturday night — 

Some sweetheart or wife whom he loved as his life, 

Each drank and he wished he could hail her. 

But the standing toast 
That pleased the most 
Was the wind that blows, 

And the ship that goes, 

And the lass that loves a sailor.* ** 

‘‘ And the lass that loves a sailor,” echoed Mr. Broughton, 
to his colleague’s astonishment. “ I knew you had. Captain. 
Catch a salt neglecting such a chance of completing his edu- 
cation. It did you good— own that; and it did me good, too, 
after the fit was over. Come, Pontifex, your wife is not 
here. Confess.” 


BY CELIACS ABBOtfR. 


298 

Mr. Pontifex shook his head very solemnly, and made 
answer with many parentheses. 

It is a sad — sad reminiscence of an ardent and perhaps 
fin this and in one or two other particulars which I have 
already at various times, as you may remember, Johnnie, in 
the course of conversation touched upon) ill-regulated youth, 
that I once imagined myself — actually in Love ” — he spoke 
in a tone of the greatest surprise — “with a — a — in fact — a 
young person of the opposite sex, who vended perfumes, 
unless my memory greatly deceives me, at an establishment 
in the High ” 

And I dare say it was a very good thing for you,” returned 
his jovial brother, interrupting the further particulars of 
this amour. It was for me, and no worse for the girl I 
loved, because she preferred somebody else, and married him. 
It was an education for us all. As it is now, Captain, at our 
time of life we may say — 

* Old as we are, for ladies* love unfit, 

The power of beauty we remember yet.* 

And the sight of a pretty face, like that of Celia Tyrrell — 
bless her ! — I drink this glass of the Forty-seven to her — is 
like the shadow of a rock in the wilderness. Age has its 
pleasures ; they are, besides the drinking of good port, the 
contemplation of beautiful women and active youth. We 
have lived— let us sit down and watch those who are living. 
You, Leonard boy,” he resumed the familiar tone of our old 
tutor, ‘Wou had the impudence to tell me, five years ago, 
that you would rather help to make history than to write 
it. And that is what you have been doing ever since. And 
it does us good — us old stagers, to see you doing it.” 

Presently he became more serious, and spoke from the 
Christian’s point of view. 

A Christian scholar and a gentleman. His race is nearly 
extinct now. But he had his uses, and many were his 
virtues. When I read Robert Browning’s poem of Bishop 
Blougram’s Apology,” I read for Blougram, Broughton. A nd 
yet he only touched that Right Reverend Father in a few 


A TRimiPSAL PROCfiSSlOK. 


points. Above all, a scholar ; and with it, a kindly heart, 
a simple faith, and a robust, full nature, which enabled him 
to enjoy all that could be got from life. He is gone now, 
with his purple face, his short fat figure, and his dogmatic 
sermons. I do not like the present man — who is earnest — 
so well. Nor do I love the fussiness of the new school. 

The next day we called upon Mrs. Pontifex, who received 
Leonard as cordially as that lady could make a greeting. 
Nothing was said about her husband’s excesses in port the 
previous evening. She said that news had reached them of 
Leonard’s happy return ; that she rejoiced at his success, 
which was doubtless, she was good enough to say, deserved, 
though she wished it had been in more Christian fields ; that 
the army was a bad school for those who wished to be serious; 
and that he must specially beware of that inflation which 
prosperity brings upon the heart. Then she said hospitably 
that she proposed, after consideration, to name an early day, 
for tea. Leonard laughed and accepted, leaving the day 
open. He always laughed, this favourite of Fortune. I do 
not think that festive gathering ever came off, owing to other 
circumstances which interfered. The Rev. John Pontifex, 
who was present, looking pale, and still preserving last 
night s solemnity, followed up the theme opened by his wife, 
giving us by way of illustration a few personal experiences, 
with copious parentheses. 

‘‘ I observed the same dangerous tendency,” he said, when 
I was standing for my degree at Oxford ; on which occasion, 
I may be permitted to add, though I now hope, having been 
chastened” — he looked at his wife — without pride, I greatly 
distinguished myself” — he got a fourth. I was treated, it 
is true, by the examiners with gross injustice, being required 
to translate passages actually, though you may not perhaps 
credit the disgraceful circumstance, from the very end of the 
works both of Lucretius and Virgil ! ! ! I was confronted, 
in fact, with the hardest portions of those authors.” Mr. 
Pontifex spoke with great bitterness, and in the firm belief 
that Virgil, writing expressly for Academical candidates, 
contrived his books so as to form a series of graduated exer- 


300 


BY CEiJA’S ABBOITR. 


cises. And in spite of tliis I obtained a place of honourable 
distinction. On that occasion, I confess with repentance, 
my heart was greatly puff ed up. It is an event to look back 
upon with profound Repentance. I observed a similar 
temptation to pride, when I dealt my Blow at the Papacy 
in fifty-three theses. A copy of this work shall be sent to 
you, Leonard, before you go again into Popish regions. I 
heard, indeed, that one so called Father (I suppose because 
he has no sons) — a Papistical Priest — had presumed to 
answer. He said he was an enquirer. So, indeed, am I — 
but — but — he is a scoundrel, and will most certainly, some 
day — at least, I fear so — meet with his deserts.” 

This seemed carrying the odium theologicum^ as well as 
literary controversy, a little too far. Mr. Pontifex had but 
one weapon, the threat of his one punishment. 

In the afternoon of what Celia called ‘Hhe day after,” 
leaving the rest of the phrase to be filled up, Leonard’s 
Colonel called upon us. There was one thing remarkable 
about the Captain. He was the simplest of sailors — no 
retired Bo’s’n could be simpler — in his habits of thought, his 
speech, and his way of life. But with an officer of his own 
or the sister service, his manner changed instinctively. To 
the quiet simplicity of his habitual air he added the bearing 
and dignity of his rank. He was, he remembered on these 
occasions, a Captain in the Royal Navy, and the carpet of 
his dining-room became a quarter-deck. 

The Colonel came to say great things of Leonard, and said 
them, Leonard not being present. 

^^He was observed by his officers, sir, from the first. 
Reported on his joining at his depot as a smart, well-set-up 
lad. Found to be of superior rank and education to the 
men. Proved himself excellent at drill. Made a corporal 
first and a sergeant shortly after. And, sir, if it were not 
for his own interests, I should say I wish he was a sergeant 
still. 

You have heard of his gallant action, I suppose,” he went 
on. Nothing finer ever done. Lord Raglan sent for him, 
sir. He has told you that, I dare say. But he did not tell 


A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 


301 


you what the chief said afterwards. It was that if he had it 
in his power he would have knighted him on the field of 
battle. He has been a credit to the regiment since the first 
day he joined it. We are proud of him, sir: we are proud 
of him, and I am happy in being able, this day, to beat up 
yonr quarters and tell you so.” 

The Captain answered simply. He said that Leonard was 
always a brave and trustworthy lad : that for his own part 
he had endeavoured to make the boy think of duty before all 
things : that it gave him unspeakable pleasure to hear what 
the Colonel had said, and to know that it was the truth 
without exaggeration : that the boy was still young, and, as 
yet, only at the beginning of his career. I felt proud of the 
Captain as he made his little speech, full of dignity and 
good feeling. 

At all events, he owes everything to you,” said the 
Colonel. And now, will you dine with us to-morrow, you 
and Mr. Pulaski ? It is guest-night.” 

The Captain accepted for both of us. 

“I should like to ask,” said the Colonel, ‘^if it is not an 
impertinent question — do you think there is any chance of 
Copleston finding out something of his family ? ” 

I have thought of it more than once,” the Captain replied. 

His mother died in giving him birth ; with the last breath 
she said his name was to be Leonard Coplestone, ‘ her hus- 
band’s name.’ It is not a very common name. To find him 
one would have to consult army and navy lists of five-and- 
twenty years ago. If we found him, what might we not 
find too ? That his father was a scoundrel is certain to me, 
from the circumstance of the boy’s birth. He may be dead ; 
he may have dishonoured the name; he may be unwilling 
to recognise his son — why not let things go on as they have 
done, without further trouble. The boy bears the Queen’s 
Commission ; he is no disgrace, but a credit to his regiment. 
Let us remain satisfied.” 

The Colonel shook his head. 

I shall look up the lists,” he said. And if I find 
out anything I will tell you first. If it is anything 


30 ^ BY CELIACS ABBOUB. 

calculated to do Coplestone harm, we will keep it to our- 
selves.” 

Guest-night at the Hundred-and-Twentieth. The tables 
covered with the regimental plate, and crowded with oflBcers. 
Ihe Colonel has our old Captain on the right, his own guest. 
I sit beside Leonard. The band is playing. There is a full 
assemblage. The younger officers are full of life and spirits. 
What is it like — this world I have never seen till to-night — 
this world of animal spirits, laughter, and careless fun ? I 
look about me dreamily. This, then, I think was the kind 
of life led by my father, Roman Pulaski, of the Imperial 
Guard, before Nicholas exchanged it for the Siberian mines. 
It must be pleasant for awhile. These young fellows are 
r either creating, like artists; nor criticising, like scholars; 
nor working for money, like professional men ; nor selling 
their wit and spirits, like authors ; nor contriving schemes 
for making money, like merchants ; they are simply living 
to enjoy things. They have had a hard time of it in India : 
a few of them — very few, alas ! — had a hard time in the 
Crimea : now they are back to garrison and English life, and 
they are rejoicing as heartily as they fought. 

They tell me that the officer of to-day is scientific, and plays 
L^riegspiel. I am sure he is not braver, more genial, kind- 
lier, or more generous than Leonard’s brothers in arms ot 
twenty years ago. I dare say, even in those brainless times, 
even among the jovial faces around that mess table, there 
were some who cared about their profession, had strategic 
genius, and studied the art of war. At least one did. Every- 
1 ody challenges the Captain. He was Copleston’s guardian. 
Everybody knows all about him. Then they challenged me, 
and had I drained all the bumpers they came offering me, 
my course at that table would have been brief indeed. 

Gentlemen, ‘ The Queen ! ’ ” 

It is the President, and then we fall into general talk. 

What sort of mess would that be into which Wassielewski 
was going to introduce me? A mess of peasants sitting 
round a fire of sticks in a forest. Instead of the Queen’s 
health we should drink to Poland, instead of claret we should 


A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 


303 


have water, instead of a circle of faces in which the enjoy- 
ment of life — the mere fact of living — was the prevailing 
feature, I should see round me everywhere the grim and 
earnest faces of those who were looking forward sadly to 
defeat and death. I suppose when a man is going to be 
martyred he goes to meet his doom with a certain exaltation 
which enables him to pass through the agony of death with 
heroic mien. The most disagreeable part about it must be 
the steady looking forward to the supreme moment. 

Dreamer/’ whispered Leonard, where are your 
thoughts ? ” 

1 was thinking what sort of a regimental mess I should find 
in Poland/’ I replied, forgetting that Leonard knew nothing. 

What mess ? Poland ? ” he asked. “ What have you to 
do with Poland now ? ” 

I told him in a few words. It was not the place or the 
time after dinner at a regimental mess to go into any heroics. 
Besides, I felt none — only a sad despondency at the necessity 
which was going to drag into the trouble one who had such 
small stomach for the fight. 

Leonard was aghast. 

‘‘ The thing is absurd, Laddy, ridiculous. You must 
not go.” 

I have pledged my word,” I said, ‘^and I must. You 
would not have me break old Wassielewski’s heart ? ” 

I don’t know. It must be a tough old heart by this time. 
But I would rather break that than let him break your head. 
We will talk about it to-morrow, old boy. What with Celia’s 
troubles and yours, it seems as if we shall have our hands full 
for awhile. Pray, has the Captain, by accident, got any secret 
sorrow ? ” 

‘‘ No,” I replied, laughing. Il was beautiful to see the 
calm way in which Leonard faced difficulties. 

He is not engaged to Mrs. Jeram, I hope, or has not con- 
tracted a secret marriage with his cook ? He’s not going to 
be tried by court-martial for intoxication, is he ? Keally, 
Laddy, you have given me a shock. Are you sure there is no 
more behind ? ” 


304 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


Quite sure/' 

Good. There is going to be a move. We will get away 
early. I will go and see this fire-eater, and appeal to his 
common sense.” 

It was twelve, however, before we escaped the kindly hos- 
pitalities of the mess, and the Captain came away amid a 
storm of invitations to dine with them again. He accepted 
them all, in great good spirits, and became a sort of privileged 
person in the barracks so long as that regiment stayed in the 
place, dividing his time in the afternoon between the officers 
and the boys at play. When the regiment was ordered away 
he returned entirely to the boys. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 

‘‘ TTPE will appeal,” said Leonard, to the man’s common 

VV sense first. The thing is absurd and preposterous.” 

He did make that appeal to Wassielewski, and as it was a 
complete failure, I suppose the old conspirator had no common 
sense. 

He called in the morning at his lodgings, that one room 
which I have described, where the old man told me my own 
story in all its hideous details, sparing nothing. The Pole 
was sitting at the table, the map of Poland in his hand, pre- 
paring for the campaign. Long lists and estimates lay beside 
him, with which he was estimating the progress and dura- 
tion of the struggle. The longer the revolt, the more lives 
sacrificed, the greater the exasperation and cruelties of the 
Muscovs, the better for Poland. Tears of women, he used to 
say in his grim way, and blood of men together fructify the 
soil, so that it produces heroes. 

At sight of a stranger he sprang to his feet, and clutched 
his papers. 

You do not remember me,” said Leonard. 

I do not,” replied the old man, gazing keenly and sus- 
piciously into his face. Spies and police assume so many 


AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 


305 


forms that they might even be looked for beneath the guise 
of a young Englishman. “ Who are you, and what do you 
want with me ? ” 

‘‘ My name is Leonard Oopleston. I am the old friend of 
Ladislas Pulaski. One of his only friends.” 

He has many,” said Wassielewski. Friends in his own 
country.” 

‘^Friends who will make him the tool of their own pur- 
poses, and lead him, if they got their own will, to death. I 
am one of the friends who want him to live.” 

Wassielewski made no reply for a moment. 

Then he seemed to recollect. 

I know you now,” he said. “ Tou went away to seek 
your fortune. You used to come to our barrack and learn 
things. The Poles were good to you then.” 

Some of your people taught me French and Eussian, 
riding, fencing, all sorts of useful things. I am grateful to 
them.” 

And your fortune — it is found ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; I am an oflScer in the army ; I have been in the 
Crimea.” 

The old man’s face brightened. 

‘‘Aha! you fought the Muscovite. We were watching, 
hoping to fight him too, but our chance never came. Why — 
why did you not make a demonstration in Poland ? ” 

“We did what we could, and we got the best of it.” 

The Pole sighed. Then he resumed his suspicious look. 

“ Why do you come to see me ? Can I fiddle for you ? I 
can march before troops of your men playing a hornpipe. 
What else can I do for you ? Ah I I see — I see,” his face 
assumed a look of cunning. “ You are a friend of Ladislas 
Pulaski, and you come here to persuade me not to take him. 
That is too late. He hast pledged himself, and he must keep 
his word. Say what you have to say, and leave me. I have 
much to think of.” 

“What I have to say is short. It is absurd to drag into 
the meshes of your conspiracy a man like Ladislas, the most 
peaceful, the most unpractical, the most dreamy of men. 

M 


3o6 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


Even now, when you half-maddened him with some horrible 
story of death and torture, his sympathies are only half with 
you. He cannot speak Polish : he is a quiet English musi- 
cian, as unfit for a campaign as any girl. Why do you seek 
to take away his life ? What earthly good can his death do 
to Poland ? ” 

He is a Pulaski. That is why he must come with us. 
His father, Roman Pulaski, dragged out ten years of misery 
in a Siberian mine. Ladislas must strike a blow to revenge 
him.’* 

Revenge ! revenge ! Leonard cried impatiently. 

‘‘Yes, young gentleman,” Wassielewski rose to his full 
height, looking something like an eagle. “ Revenge ! That 
is the word. For every cruel and treacherous murder there 
shall be revenge full and substantial. Did Ladislas tell you 
the story of his father ? ” 

“ No, not yet.” 

“ That is not well. His mother, too, was murdered when 
the Russians stole her boy, and she ran after the carts through 
the winter snow, bareheaded, crying and imploring for her 
child till she could run no longer, and so fell down and died. 
Did Ladislas tell you of his mother?” 

“No.” 

“It is not well. Ladislas should tell everybody these 
things. He should repeat them to himself twice a day ; he 
should never let them go out of his brain.” 

“ Why did you disturb the current of his peaceful life with 
the story ? ” 

“To fire his blood; to quicken his sluggish pulse. The 
boy is a dreamer. I would spur him into action.” 

“ You cannot do that. But you might spur him into mad- 
ness. What is the use of filling his thoughts with revenge 
which can only be dreamed of ? ” 

“ Only be dreamed of! ” Wassielewski cried, almost with a 
shriek. “ Why, man, I have dreamed of revenge for twenty 
years and more. Only be dreamed of? Why we shall put 
the revenge into action at once. Do you hear ? — at once — 
next week. We start next week — we — but you are an 


AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 307 

Englishman,” he stopped short, and you would not betray 
me.” 

‘‘ I betray no one. But Ladislas shall not go with you.” 

I say he shall,” Wassielewski replied calmly. I have 
persaaded him. He is expected. Eevenge! Yes*; a long 
scourge from generation to generation.” 

An unworthy thing to seek. I thought you Poles were 
patriots.” 

It is because we are patriots that we seek revenge. How 
easy it is for you English, who have no wrongs to remember, 
to talk with contempt of revenge. What do you know of 
backs scarred and seamed with Russian sticks ? What mur- 
dered sons have you for the women to lament ? What broken 
promises, ruined homes, outraged hearths, secret wrongs, and 
brutal imprisonments? Go, sir; leave me along with my 
plans ; and talk to no Pole about living in peace.” 

He is deformed.” 

So much the better. All the Pulaskis for centuries have 
been tall and straight. Who crippled the boy ? The 
Russians. Let the people see his round back and hear his 
story.” 

“ He is weak ; he cannot march ; he cannot even carry a 
gun.” 

‘‘Yes; he is strong enough to carry a rifle, and use it, 
too.” 

“He is a dreamer. Let him dream away his life in 
peace.” 

“ He may dream, if he likes — in the next world,” said the 
conspirator grimly. “ Poland claims all her sons — dreamers, 
and poets, and all. This is a lev^e en masse, a universal con- 
scription, which knows of no exceptions. He must join the 
rest, and march to meet his fate. Shall a son of Roman 
Pulaski stay in inglorious exile while the Poles are rising 
again ? ” 

Leonard made a gesture of impatience. 

“ It is madness. Man, it is murder.” i 

Wassielewski sighed and sat down — he had been walking 
up and down the room. Resting one hand upon his papers. 


3o8 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


he looked up sorrowfully at Leonard, speaking in low tones 
of conviction and with softened eyes. 

‘^It is what I have said to myself a thousand times. 
Ladislas is not a soldier : let him live. I say it still in the 
day-time. But at night, when I am quite alone in the moon- 
light, I sometimes see the form of his mother, the Lady 
Claudia. She is in white, and she points to Poland. Her 
face is not sad but joyous. Perhaps that is because she is 
going to have her son again, in Heaven — after the Russians 
have killed him. I asked her once, because I wished to save 
the boy, if he should go. She smiled and pointed her finger 
still. After that, I knew. She wants to have him with 
her.” 

“That was a dream of the night, Wassielewski.” 

“ No — no,” he shook his head and laughed : “ I am not to 
be persuaded that it was a dream. Why, I should be mad 
indeed if I were to take the injunctions of my dear and long- 
lost mistress to be a dream.” 

“ People are sometimes deceived,” said Leonard, “ by the 
very force of their thoughts — by illusions of the brain — by 
fancies ” 

“ It seems a cruel thing,” Wassielewski went on unheed- 
ing, “but it cannot be cruel if his mother orders it. The 
boy must come with me : he must join the villagers : he 
must learn their language — if he has time : march with 
them : eat with them : and carry his life in his hand until 
Death comes for him. It will be bad for him at first, but 
he will grow stronger, and then he will feel the battle fever, 
so that when I am killed he will be better able to protect 
himself. And perhaps he will escape — a good many Poles 
have escaped. Then you will have him back again. But I 
do not think he will, because in the night I see visions of 
battles between the Russians and the Poles, and I never see 
him among them, even myself.” 

“ Poor Wassielewski,” said Leonard, touched with his 
fanatic simplicity. 

“ He is a good lad,” the old man went on. “ I loved him 
first for his mother’s sake, but learned to love him for his 


AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 


309 


own. He lias a tender soul, like a woman’s, and a face like 
a girl’s. We shall have to accustom him to scenes that he 
knows nothing of. We do not make war in Poland with 
kid gloves. We kill and ai-e killed; we shoot and are shot: 
we use every weapon that we can find and call it lawful. 
We slaughter every Muscov who falls into our hands, and 
we expect to be slaughtered ourselves. It is war to the 
knife between us, and the Poles are always on the losing 
side.” 

Then why make these mad attempts at insurrection ? ” 
Because the time has come round again. Once in every 
generation, sometimes twice, that time comes round. Now 
it is upon us, and we are ready to move. You wish to save 
your friend. It is too late ; his name is here, upon the roll 
of those who dare to die.” 

‘‘Why,” said Leonard, “you are a worse dreamer than 
poor Laclislas. On whose head will the guilt of all this blood- 
shed lie, except on yours and the madmen among whom you 
work ? ” 

Wassielewski shook his head. 

“ The crime be on the head of the Czar. Eebellion is my 
life. I think of it all day, and dream of it all night. By 
long thinking you come to learn the wishes of the dead. 
They whisper to me, these voices of the silent night, ‘ What 
we died for, you must die for; what we suffered for, you 
must suffer for ; the soil of Poland is rank with the blood of 
her martyrs. Do you, too, with the rest, take the musket, 
and go to lie in that sacred earth.’ They have chosen me, 
the noble dead ; they have elected me to join in their 
fellowship. Ladislas shall sit beside me with them. I have 
spoken.” 

He finished, and pointed to the door. There was nothing 
more to be said, and Leonard came away disheartened. 

“ It is no use, Ladislas,” he said. “ The man is mad with 
long brooding over his wrongs. I have ever been much in 
the conspiracy and rebellion line, but now I understand 
what a conspirator is like in private life, and I don’t like 
him. When I read henceforth of Guy Fawkes, Damiens, 


310 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR. 


Cassius, Brutus, and other gentlemen of tlieir way of think-' 
ing, I shall always remember old Wassielewski, with his 
deep-set eyes, his overhanging eyebrows, that far-off look of 
his, and the calm way in which he contemplates being killed. 
Even Havelock and his saints never marched to death with 
greater composure. And killed he certainly will be, with 
all the madmen who go with him.” 

I must go with him, Leonard. I have promised. I am 
pledged.” 

‘‘We shall see,” he replied. 

The vague words brought a little hope to my soul. The 
thirst for revenge, alien to my nature, was gone now, despite 
the burning wrongs, the shameful and horrible history which 
the old man had told me. I looked forward with unutter- 
able disgust to a campaign among Polish rebels. I was 
indeed an unworthy son of Poland. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A DIPLOMATIST. 

I T was not with any view of appealing to Herr EaumePs 
generosity that Leonard called upon him. Qnite the 
contrary. He went to see what manner of man this alien 
would appear to him, seen in the light of extended experience. 
And he avoided all reference to Celia. It was in the fore- 
noon that he went. The German was sitting at his piano 
playing snatches of sentimental ditties and students’ songs 
with a pipe in his lips, which he occasionally put down to 
warble something in French or German about Mariette re- 
membering Lindor, and all the rest of it, or “ How Love 
survives Absence,” “How Hard it is for Friends to Part.” 
His love for music, never carried him beyond the ballad 
stage, and all the things he played were reminiscences of 
some time spent among students or young officers at Heidel- 
berg, Vienna, or Paris. 

He got up— big, massive, imposing — and greeted his visitor 
cordially. 


A DIPLOMATIST. 


311 

Who comes to see me, drinks with me,” he said hospi- 
tably, always excepting Ladislas Pulaski, who drinks with 
no one. Sit down, Captain Coplestone. I am glad to see 
you so early. That shows that you are going to talk. So — - 

a cigar Lichfraumilch — and good — so. When Fortune 

means most kindly to a man, she makes him a soldier. I 
congratulate you.” 

“ You have served yourself?” 

‘‘I have — in Austrian cavalry. I had an accident, and 
could ride no more. That is why I abandoned my career.” 

Ah ! ” said Leonard thoughtfully, “ I knew you had 
been a soldier. One never quite loses the reminiscences of 
drill.” 

They went on talking in idle fashion. 

‘^And you still keep up the same interest in the Poles, 
Herr Eaumer ? ” 

‘‘ Poles ? ” He started. ‘‘ What interest ? ” 

‘‘When last I saw you, I was learning French at the 
Polish Barrack, and you used to ask me about them — you 
remember.” 

“ Ah ! — Yes.— So. — Yes. I remember perfectly. The poor 
Poles. But they are all gone now, except one or two, and I 
had forgotten them.” 

“ Wassielewski remains. You know him ? ” 

“ By name ; Ladislas talks about him.” This was not 
true. “ He is the irreconcilable Pole — the ideal Pole. A 
harmless enthusiast.” 

“ Enthusiast, perhaps. Harmless, no.” 

“There are plenty like him about the world,” said the 
German quietly. “ They seldom do mischief. They are in 
London, Paris, New York, and Stamboul. They are even in 
Moscow. Let them conspire.” 

“ No mischief! ” Leonard echoed. “ The Russians prevent 
that by their secret service, I suppose.” He looked at his 
friend steadily. “We know by Crimean experience how 
well that is conducted. Why — they had a Russian spy, 
disguised as a German, all through the war, in our own 
London War Office. But that you have heard, of course.” 


3T2 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


Herr Raumer laughed. 

‘‘It was very neatly done. Any other but the English 
would have foreseen a Russian war, and taken care that some 
of their officers learned Russian.” 

“ At all events, we get on, somehow.” 

“ Yes ; because you have a good geographical position ; 
because you have money; and because you have the most 
wonderful luck. Wait till Russia gets Stamboul.” 

“ When will that be ? ” 

“And commands the Valley of the Euphrates. It is very 
clever of you to make of Moldavia and Wallachia an inde- 
pendent state; but who is to guard it? Suppose a time 
were to come when Austria — she is always Austria the 
Unready — was fettered with diplomatic chains, when France 
either would not or could not interfere in the Eastern 
Question, what is to prevent Russia from marching across 
the frontier of your Roumania ? Treaties ? Why the whole 
history of the world is the history of broken treaties. Sooner 
or later she will try for Asia, from the Levant to Pekin. Of 
course that will include Afghanistan. Then she will try for 
India, and win it by force of numbers. Where will your 
greatness be then ? ” 

“We have fought her before, and we will fight her 
again.” 

“Oh yes; you can fight, you English. Perhaps you can 
fight better than any other people. That is to say, you can 
do with a hundred soldiers what Russia wants a hundred 
and twenty to accomplish. But you have only that hundred, 
and Russia has behind her hundred and twenty ten times a 
hundred and twenty more. You are commercially great 
because London has taken the place which the Constantinople 
of the future will hold, the commercial centre of the world. 
You have a great fleet. You will lose your great empire 
because you will not have a great army. England will 
become less formidable as armies grow greater. If you wish 
to preserve the power of England, make every Englishman 
a soldier.” 

“ That will never be,” said Leonard. 


A DIPLOMATIST. 


P3 


Then the days of England’s supremacy are done.” 

He knocked out the ashes of his pipe, refilled it slowly, 
and lit up again. 

It is by her secret service which you despise that Eussia 
defends herself, and steadily advances. She throws out her 
secret agents to watch, report, and, if necessary, make mis- 
chief. They are the irregular cavalry of politics. Some- 
times they are called merchants or scientific explorers, some- 
times they are disguised as missionaries, sometimes they 
are the ministers and rulers of the country, corrupted by 
Eussian gold or flattered with Eussian skill. Eussia makes 
no move till she has felt her way. Persia will be hers when 
the last relic of British influence has been bought out or 
wheedled out, or when Eussian counsels have been able, 
unmolested, to bring the country into a fit condition for 
Eussian occupation.” 

I suppose that Eussian influences are already at work in 
England itself? ” 

Not yet,” said Herr Eaumer, laughing. The conquest 
of England would cost too much. But Eussian influences 
are already at work against British interests, wherever they 
can be met and injured. You have no enemy in the world 
except Eussia. Not France, which changes her policy as 
she changes her Government, once in every generation. Not 
America, which is a peaceful country, and more afraid of 
war than England. The enemy of England, the persistent 
and ever watchful enemy of England, is Eussia, because it 
is England alone, at present, that can keep Eussia from 
Constantinople.” 

‘‘Well, you have forewarned us, at all events.” 

“ Forewarned is nothing. You may forewarn a consump- 
tive man that he will suffer in the lungs. That will not 
prevent the disease. You will go on in England, as you 
always do, learning nothing, preparing for nothing, acting 
always as if you had to do with men who tell the truth. 
Could any country be more stupid ? ” 

“ Why,” asked Leonard, “ should not nations be as honest 
as men ? ” 


314 


BY CELIACS AEBOUK. 


So they are,” he replied, ^‘only you Euglishmen will 
persist in supposing that men are not liars. An English 
gentleman, I will admit, always speaks the truth. At least, 
he has been taught to do so, and it comes natural to him. 
But a common Englishman does not. The man who sells 
things to you lies habitually, in order to make his profit — • 
lies like a Syrian, goes to church on Sundays, and thinks 
he is a Christian. An American, I suppose, is pretty nearly 
the same thing as an Englishman, unless he happens to be 
an Irish Catholic. I believe that Dutchmen, Danes, Swedes, 
and Norwegians — small nations without ambition — have a 
singular preference for the truth. But all other nations lie. 
I am a German, and I state that unblushingly. Those get 
on best who lie hardest.” 

Suppose that one here and there were to speak the 
truth ? ” 

‘‘It would do him no good, because he would not be 
believed, unless he were an Englishman. Diplomacy is a 
game in which no one believes any one else. The truth lies 
behind the words — somewhere. It is our business — I mean 
the business of diplomatists — to find it out. First, you have 
the actual assurance of the Czar, we will say, conveyed by 
his ambassador. Of course no one, except, perhaps, an Eng- 
lish newspaper, pretends for a moment to believe a pacific 
assurance. You receive it, and you try to find out what 
Russia is actually doing, which is a great deal more im- 
portant. If you find that out, and are able to watch the 
movements of other Powers, you have a chance of under- 
standing the truth. 

“ Everything stated openly is stated with intention to 
deceive. That is the first rule in diplomacy. All friendly 
assurances must be received with suspicion. That is the 
second rule. The statement of disinterested action which is 
always made is, of course, received with derision. No nation 
is disinterested, except, sometimes, England. There has not 
been a disinterested action done by any single nation since 
the world began, save only one or two done by England. I 
grant you that. Statesmanship means lying for the good of 


A DIPLOMATIST. 


315 


your country, and there is a regular method which is known 
and adopted everywhere. Except to the ignorant people, it 
means nothing, and imposes on no one.” 

‘‘ Why not start fair again all round, and speak the 
truth ? ” 

What ? and spoil the game? Heaven forbid ! We have 
our little fictions in society, why not in diplomacy also ? I 
do not want, as I once told Ladislas Pulaski, to live in a 
world gone good. It would be tedious to me, that kind ot 
world. And, at my age, I cannot unlearn things. Let us 
go on as we have always gone on — one nation trying to cheat 
every other — ambassadors lying — secret service reduced to 
one of the fine arts — and let us watch the splendid spectacle, 
unequalled in history, of a nation following a line of policy 
from generation to generation, beaten at one point and 
carrying it forward at another — always advancing, always 
aided everywhere by a swarm of secret agents.” 

Afterwards repeating the conversation to me, — 

“The man,” said Leonard, “is a Russian agent himself. 
I am certain of it. No German ever talked English so well : 
he has the best Russian manner : he is rusd^ polished, and 
utterly cynically frank, unscrupulous, like all the people con- 
nected with the Russian Government. He has an important 
mission here, no doubt, and must have picked up a good deal 
of information during all these years. I wonder what his 
name is, and what his real rank in the police.” 

“ You are only guessing, Leonard.” 

“ Perhaps, but I am sure, all the same. My dear boy, I 
know them. There were Russian papers on the table, too. 
I saw the Golos^ of Moscow, among others. He is no more a 
German than you or I. ‘ Served in the Austrian cavalry. 
‘Fudge and fiap-doodle ! ’ as Mrs. Pontifex says. Curious, 
to see the patronising way in which he talked. I am only a 
young oflBcer of that stupid nation where diplomatists speak 
the truth. I should like to checkmate our friend on his own 
ground.” 

“ But— Celia?” 

“ Do you think I am going to let Celia be handed over to 


3i6 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR 


a Russian spy ? ” he asked grandly. A Russian officer 
would be a different thing. There are splendid fellows 
among them. But a spy ? Pah ! The thought makes me 
ill. Besides, Laddy/’ he laughed, I don’t think we will let 
Celia go out of England at all. She is too good for any but 
an Englishman.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE FOURTH ESTATE. 

I WAS sitting in Leonard’s quarters two days afterwards, 
idling the time with him, when I became aware of a 
familiar figure walking slowly across the barrack yard. It 
was that of Mr. Ferdinand Brambler. I had not seen any 
of the family for some time, having been entirely occupied 
with Ce!ia, Leonard, and my Polish schemes. He bore him- 
self with quite his old solemnity, but there was something 
in his manner which showed change and decay — a kind of 
mouldiness. As he drew nearer it became too evident that 
his outer garments were much the worse for wear, his boots 
down at heel, and his whole appearance pinched and hungry. 
Things must have been going badly with the children. 
My heart smote me for neglecting the Bramblers. Were 
all of them, including my poor little bright-eyed Forty-four, 
in the same hungry and dilapidated condition ? 

He made straight for Leonard’s quarters, and, coming in 
out of the broad sunlight, did not at first see me. 

‘‘ Captain Copleston ? ” he asked timidly. 

I am Captain Copleston,” said Leonard. What can I 
do for you ? ” 

Sir,” said the great Ferdinand, drawing himself up, 
introduce myself as representing the Fourth Estate. I am 
the Printing Press.” 

‘^You don’t look like one,” replied Leonard flippantly. 
But go on.” 

‘‘Don’t you know me, Mr. Ferdinand?” I asked, jumping 
up and shaking hands with him. “ Leonard, this is my old 


THE FOURTH ESTATE. 


317 


friend, Mr. Ferdinand Brambler, the brother of Augustus 
Brambler, whom you recollect, I am sure.” 

‘‘ Of course I do,” said Leonard. How do you do, Mr. 
Brambler ? Your brother was a little man, with a comical 
face that looked as if he was too jolly for his work. I 
remember now. Is he in the Legal now, in the Clerical, or 
in the Scholastic ? And will you take a glass of wine or a 
brandy and soda ? ” 

My brother Augustus devotes his whole energies now to 
the Legal,” said Ferdinand slowly. “I will take a brandy 
and soda, thank you. With a biscuit or a sandwich, if I 
may ask for one.” 

‘‘ Send for some sandwiches, Leonard,” I said. And how 
are you all in Castle Street ? ” 

But poorly, Mr. Pulaski. Very poorly. The children 
are — not to disguise the truth — ahem — breaking out again, 
in a way dreadful to look at. Forty-six is nothing but an 
Object — an Object — from insufficiency of diet. Too much 
bread and too little meat. Ah ! the good old days are gone 
when things were going on — things worthy of an historic 
pen — all around us, and money flowed in — literally flowed 
in. Captain Copleston. What with a prize ship here, an 
embarkation of troops there, the return of the wounded, an 
inspection of militia, and all the launches, I used to think 
nothing of writing up to a leg of mutton in three or four 
hours, turning off a pair of boots as if it was nothing, putting 
a greatcoat into shape in a single evening, throwing in a 
gown for Mrs. Augustus and a new frock for Forty-four, or 
going out in the morning, and polishing off a day’s run into 
the country for the whole family out of a visit from the 
Commander-in-Chief. I used to laugh at that as only a 
good day’s work. Happy time! You remember how fat 
and well-fed the children were once, Mr. Pulaski. But those 
days are gone. I despised then what I used to call the 
butter and eggs. Alas I the butter and eggs are nearly all 
we have to live upon now.” 

You mean ” 

I mean, gentlemen, the short paragraphs poorly remune- 


318 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


rated at one penny for each line of copy. One penny ! And 
at least half of the sum goes in wear and tear of shoe leather 
worn out in picking up items about the town. I am a 
chiffonier^ gentlemen, as we say in the French. I pick up 
rags and tatters of information as I peregrinate the streets. 
Nothing is too trifling for my degraded pen. I find myself 
even, in the children’s interests, praying for a fire, or a 
murder, or a neat case of robbery. Here, for instance, is a 
specimen of how low in the literary scale we can go.” 

He pulled a little bundle of papers out of his pocket. 

SINGULAR ACCIDENT. 

‘‘ ‘ As our esteemed townsman, Alderman Cherrystone, was 
walking along the pavement of High Street on the morning 
of Monday last, he stepped upon a piece of orange peel, and 
falling heavily, dislocated his arm. The unfortunate gentle- 
man, who has been removed to the hospital, is now doing 
well.’ 

“ Mr. Pulaski,” he asked in withering sarcasm, “ that is a 
pleasant thing to come to after all my grandeur, is it not? 
Think of it, you who actually remember my papers on the 
arrival and departure of troops. But it is sixpence,” he 
added with a sigh. Here is another of the same sort. I 
call it,” he added in a sepulchral voice, 

‘‘^A LIKELY STORY. 

^ On Thursday, before His Worship the Mayor, a young 
man of dissipated appearance, who gave the name of Moses 
Copleston’ ” 

What ? ” cried Leonard, Moses Copleston ? ” 

‘‘Yes, sir, your own name was that given by that in- 
dividual.” 

“ Go on,” said Leonard, looking at me. 

“ ‘ And said he was the son of a general in the army, 
was charged with being drunk and disorderly in the streets. 
The police knew him well, and various committals made in 
another name were reported of him. He was fined 40s. and 


THE FOURTH ESTATE. 


319 


costs, or a fortnight. The money was instantly paid, and 
the prisoner left the court laughing, and saying there was 
plenty more to be got where that came from. 

‘ The Mayor recalled him ’ ” 

Will you give me that paragraph?” Leonard interrupted, 
and with an excited air. ‘‘Will you allow me to keep that 
out of the paper? I have a reason — it is my own name, 
you see.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said Ferdinand. “ I have no wish to put 
it in the paper, except that it is worth fourteenpence. And 
that goes some way towards the children’s dinner, poor 
things.” 

“ I will give you more than fourteenpence for it, my good 
friend,” said Leonard. “ Where is this prisoner — this Moses 
‘ — do you know ? ” 

Of course I perceived the suspicion that had entered his 
mind. He was jumping at conclusions, as usual, but it was 
hard not to believe that he was right. I began to think 
what we knew of our old enemy Moses, and could remember 
nothing except what Jem Hex — Boatswain Hex — told me — 
that he was not a credit to his education. This was but a 
small clue. But some shots in the dark go straight to the 
bull’s eye. Leonard’s eye met mine, and there was certainty 
in it. 

I saw he wanted to talk about it, and so I got rid of 
Ferdinand by proposing to bring Leonard to his house in 
the evening, when he should pump him, and extract materials 
for a dozen papers. 

“ It is very kind of you, sir,” he said. “ You will enable 
me to confer on the children next week — ahem — a sense 
of repletion that they have not experienced for many 
months.” 

“ I will tell you anything you want,” said Leonard. “ But 
you must ask me, because I cannot know beforehand, what 
you would most like to have.” 

“Sir,” said Ferdinand fervently, “I will pump you to 
good purpose if you will allow me. Tour own exploits, 
ahem ” 


320 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUB. 


No — no,” said Leonard, laughing. “ I must make con- 
ditions. You must keep my name out of your story.” 

Ferdinand's countenance fell. 

“ If you insist upon it — of course. But personalities are 
the soul of successful journalism ” — it will be seen that 
Ferdinand Brambler was in advance of his age — and if I 
could be permitted to describe these modest quarters in detail 
— camp-bed, two chairs, absence of ornament — ah ! — ‘ The 
Hero’s Ketreat ; ' your personal appearance, tall, with curling 
brown hair, square shoulders, manly and assured carriage, 
eagle eye — ah ! — ‘ The Hero at Home ; ' your conversation 
— ^ with difficulty can he be induced to speak of those hair- 
breadth escapes, those feats of more than British pluck, 
those audacious sorties ' — ‘The Hero in Modesty;’ your dress 
when not on duty, a plain suit of tweed, without personal 
decoration of any kind, simple, severe, and in good taste — 
‘ The Hero in Mufti ; ’ and your early life, a native of this 
town, educated partly by Mr. Hezekiah Ryler, B.A., at the 
time when Mr. Augustus Brambler formed part of his com- 
petent and efficient staff, and partly by the learned Perpetual 
Curate of St. Faith’s — ‘The Hero’s Education ;’ your entrance 
into the Army, ‘The Hero takes his First Step 

“ Stop — stop — for Heaven’s sake,” cried the Hero. “ Do 
you believe I am going to consent to that kind of thing ? ” 

Ferdinand collapsed. 

“ If you really will not allow it,” he said, “ there is nothing 
more to be done. Just as I am warming into the subject, 
too. Well, Captain Copleston, if you will not let me describe 
your own exploits by name, I shall be grateful for any par- 
ticulars you may be kind enough to give me.” 

“ Yes — on those conditions, that my name is kept out — I 
shall be glad to help you.” 

“ Sir,” said Ferdinand, “ you are very good. I will pump 
you like — like — an organ-blower. I will play on you like — 
like a Handel. At what time, sir, will yon honour our 
humble abode ? ” 

“We will be with you about eight,” I said. “And — and 
— Mr. Ferdinand, will you give my compliments to Mrs. 


THE FOUETH ESTATE. 


321 


Augustus, and my love to Forty-four, and say that we hope 
to have the pleasure of supper with them. Early supper, so 
as to suit Forty-six and the rest.” 

Ferdinand sighed, and then smiled, and then with a deep 
bow to the Hero, retired. 

What about Moses ? ” cried Leonard. 

How do you know it is the real Moses ? ” 

“ There can be but one Moses,” said Leonard ; and how 
should any other get hold of my name ? Do you think he is 
in the town now ? ” 

I began to make inquiries that very afternoon, bethinking 
me that Mrs. Hex, Jem the Bo’sn’s wife, might know 
something about it. Jem had been married some time 
now, and was the father of a young family, who lived in one 
of the streets near Victory Eow, in a highly respectable 
manner. Mrs. Hex had been a young lady connected on 
both sides with the service, so that it was quite natural that 
she should marry a sailor, and it was an advantageous match 
on both sides. She remembered Moses perfectly well ; he 
was always going and coming, she said; would be seen 
about for a day or two, and would then disappear for a long 
time; he had been in prison once for something or other; 
then he disappeared for some years ; then he came back in 
rags; and then — just a short time ago — he suddenly blos- 
somed out into new and magnificent toggery, with a gold 
watch-chain and a real watch, with rings on his fingers and 
money in his pocket, and he got drunk every night. Also, 
he called himself Oopleston, which Mrs. Hex thought should 
not be allowed. Most likely we might find him at the 
‘‘ Blue Anchor ” in the evening, where there was a nightly 
free-and-easy for soldiers and sailors, at which he often 
appeared, standing drinks all round in a free and affable 
manner. 

‘‘Quite the Moses we used to love,” said Leonard in a 
great rage. “We will go to the ‘Blue Anchor," and wring 
the truth out of him.” 

For that day we had, however, our engagement at the 
Bramblers’, which we duly kept, and were ushered into the 

X 


322 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


front room, Ferdinand’s ‘‘study.” He was sitting at the 
table in expectation of us, with paper and pencil before him. 
He was hungering and thirsting for information. Beside 
him stood Augustus, as cheerful and smiling as though the 
children were not breaking out. Except that he was 
shabbier than usual, there was no mark of poverty or failure 
upon him. 

“ This, Captain Oopleston,” he said, “ is a real honour. I 
take it as a recognition of my brother Ferdinands genius. 
My brother Ferdinand, sir, is a Gem.” 

“ Brother Augustus,” murmured the author bashfully, 
“ nay — nay.” 

“A Gem — I repeat it — a Gem. And of the first water. 
What says the poet ? — 

‘ Full many a time, this Gem of ray serene, 

Outside the Journal Office may be seen.* 

He will do you justice, sir. Mr. Pulaski,” he sank his voice 
to a whisper, “shall we leave these two alone? Shall we 
retire to the domestic circle, not to disturb History and 
Heroism? At what time shall we name supper, Captain 
Copleston? Pray, fix your own time. Think of your con- 
venience first. We are nothing — nothing.” 

“ I never take supper, thank you,” said Leonard, who was 
beginning to be a little bored with the whole business. 

“ Don’t speak of supper to me,” said Ferdinand. “ This is 
my supper,” he patted the paper affectionately. “ This my 
evening beer.” He pointed to the inkstand. “ This is my 
pillow,” indicating the blotting-pad. “ And for me there 
will be no night’s rest. Now, sir, if you will sit there — so 
— with the light upon the face — we can converse. Affluence 
is about to return, brother Augustus.” 

Augustus and I stole out of the room on tip-toe. In the 
back room the table was laid, and the children were crowded 
in the window, looking at the cloth with longing eyes. Poor 
little children ! They were grown pale and thin during 
these hard times, and their clothes were desperately shabby. 
Forty-four, a tall girl now of fourteen, angular and bony, as 


THE FOUKTH ESTATE. 


323 


is common at that age, preserved some show of cheerfulness, 
as became the eldest of the family. It was hers to set an 
example. But the rest were very sad in countenance, save 
for a sort of hungry joy raised by the prospect of supper. 

‘‘Always something kind from the Captain,” murmured 
the poor wife. 

“ It was lucky,” I said, “ that we had that cold round of 
beef in the larder. Cannot we have supper immediately ? 
I am sure the children would like it.” 

The poor children gave a cry, and Forty- six burst into 
loud weeping. 

“ Things have not gone very well, latterly,” said Augustus, 
looking uncomfortable. “ Sometimes I even think that we 
don’t get enough meat. We had some on Sunday, I remem- 
ber” — and this was Friday — "because Ferdinand said it 
was the first real meal he had enjoyed for a week. That was 
while we were sitting over our wine after dinner.” 

Nothing, not even actual starvation, would have prevented 
the two brothers from enjoying their Sunday pretence of 
sitting, one each side a little table, at the front window, 
with a decanter and two glasses before them. I do not 
know what the decanter contained. Perhaps what had once 
been Marsala. Ferdinand cherished the custom as a mark 
of true gentility, and was exceedingly angry if the children 
came in and interrupted. He said grandly that a gentle- 
man “ ought not to be disturbed over his wine.” I think 
Augustus cared less about the ceremony. 

Meantime the mother, assisted by Forty-four and Forty- 
five, brought in the supper — cold beef and hot potatoes — 
with real beer — no toast and water. 

I pass over the details of the meal. Even Augustus was 
too hungry to talk, and Forty-six surpassed himself. I sat 
next to Forty-four, who squeezed my hand furtively, to 
show that she was grateful to the Captain. She was 
always a tender-hearted little thing, and devoted to her 
brothers and sisters. The pangs of hunger appeased, we 
talked. 

“ You now have an opportunity,” said Augustas, leaning 


324 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


back in his chair after the fatigues of eating; ^^you now 
have an opportunity of boasting, my children, that a Crimean 
hero has actually come to this house, in order to tell the 
history of the war to your uncle Ferdinand, the well-known 
writer/' 

The boys and girls murmured. This was indeed grandeur. 

‘^We will drink," said Augustus, filling his glass, and 
handing me the jug. We will drink a toast. I give you, 
children, coupled, the names of Captain Copleston, the Hero, 
and Ferdinand Brambler — your uncle, my dears — the His- 
torian. It is my firm belief that this night has commenced 
what I may in military language call an Alliance, or — • 
speaking as a lawyer, one may say that this night has 
witnessed the tacit execution of a Deed of Partnership " — 
he relished his words so much that he was fain to repeat 
them — between the Hero and the Historian, which will 
result in tbeir being known together, and indissolubly con- 
nected by the generations, yet to come, of posterity. For 
myself, I have, as you know, little other ambition than to be 
remembered, if remembered I am at all, as Augustus 
Brambler — your father, my dears — formerly an ornament to 
the Legal." 

We drank the toast with enthusiasm. There were no- 
where to be found children more ready to drink or eat toasts 
than the B ramblers. 

By our own family connections, Mr. Pulaski,” Augustus 
continued, we have more sympathy with the Navy than 
with the Army. Mrs. Brambler — your mother, my dears — 
is highly connected as regards that service; and it is, I 
confess, my favourite. Sometimes I think of putting Forty- 
six into it, though if they were wrecked on a desert island, 
and provisions run short, he would come oS* badly. Forty- 
eight, of course, is out of the question where discipline and 
obedience are concerned. It would, however, have been just 
the service for poor little Fifty-one, my dears, had that 
interesting child been born.” 

He looked critically at Forty-six, sadly at Forty-eight, 
and shook his head. All hung their heads sorrowfully, as 


THE FOUETH ESTATE. 


325 

was customary at mention of the Great and Gifted Fifty-one 
— unborn. 

Two members of my wife's family — she was a Tollerwinch 
— were members of that gallant service, Mr. Pulaski. One 
of them, her uncle, held the rank of Master’s Mate, and if 
he had not had the misfortune to knock down his superior 
officer on the quarter-deck, would now, one may be justified 
in supposing, have been Rear-Admiral Sir Samuel Toiler- 
winch, K.O.B. — of the White. I drink to the health and 
memory — in solemn silence — of the late Admiral.” 

Such was Augustus’s enthusiasm, that we all believed at 
the moment the deceased officer to have died in that rank. 

‘^The Admiral,” Augustus sighed. ^‘You must not be 
proud, my dears, of these accidents — mere accidents — of dis- 
tinguished family connections. Your mother’s first cousin, 
James Elderberry, entered the service also. He was a 
purser’s clerk. I think I am right, my dear, in stating to 
Mr. Pulaski that James was a most gallant and deserving 
officer.” 

“He was, indeed,” said Mrs. Brambler. “Poor Jem! 
And sang a most beautiful song when sober.” 

“ Universally esteemed, my children, from the yardarm — 
to speak nautically — and the maintop mizenmast, wherever 
that or any other portion of the rigging is lashed taut to the 
shrouds, down to the orlop deck. His service was not long 
— only three weeks in all — and it was cut short by a court- 
martial on a charge of — of — in fact, of inebriation while on 
duty. He might have done well, perhaps, in some other 
Walk — or shall we say. Sail of Life? — if he had not, in fact, 
continued so. He succumbed — remember this. Forty-six — • 
to the effects of thirst. Well, we must all die. To every 
brave rover comes his day.” Augustus rolled his head and 
tried to look like a buccaneer. “ Your mother’s cousin, my 
children, must be regarded as one who fell — in action.” 


BY CELIACS AKBOUR 


326 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 
love’s victory. 

I SHALL premise that my story now becomes the journal of 
three days — every hour of which is graven on my memory. 
And I must tell the events which crowd that brief period as 
if I was actually present at all of them. 

Our rejoicings and dinner parties were all over outwardly, 
at least, we had all dropped back to our old habits. I had 
no lessons to give, because we were in holiday time, and 
divided my day between Celia and Leonard, unless we were 
all three together. But Celia was anxious ; I was waiting 
with a sinking at the heart for Wassielewski’s signal ; and 
every day the face of Mr. Tyrrell grew more cloudy and over- 
cast with care. He was mayor for the year, as I think I have 
said before, and had the municipal work in addition to the 
business of his own office. 

The first of these three days was June the 28th — a week 
after Leonard’s return. He had met Celia every day — some- 
times twice in the same day ; as yet he had said nothing. 

Suppose,” he said, suppose, Laddy, that — I only put a 
case, you know — that I were to meet you and Celia in the 
Queen’s Bastion ; suppose there should be no one else in the 

place ” 

Well?” I asked. 

“ Would it, I say, in such a contingency, occur to you to 
have an appointment elsewhere ? ” 

I forget whether Perseus had fallen in love with Andromeda 
before the slaying of the dragon ; if so, the agitation in the 
breast of the warrior must have been greatly intensified, 
especially when he found he had only just arrived in 
time. 

I told him that it was a clear breach of trust ; that Celia 
was allowed to come out with me in a tacit understanding 
that there should be no lovemaking ; that I was a male 
duenna ; that I should be ever after haunted by the knowledge 
of the crime ] that I should be afraid to face her father ; that 


LOVE'S VICTORY. 


327 


Herr Eaumer — but, after all, it mattered nothing what Herr 
Eaumer thought ; and — finally, I acceded, promised to efface 
myself, and wished him success. 

I do not know how it was that on the morning of that 28th 
day of June, Celia looked happier and brighter than she had 
done for weeks. She was dressed, I remember, in some light 
silver-grey muslin dress, which became her tall and graceful 
figure, and the sweet calm face above it. I knew every shade 
of her face ; I had seen it change from childhood to woman- 
hood ; I had watched the clouds grow upon it during the 
trouble of the last few weeks ; I had seen the sunshine come 
back to it when Leonard came home again, to bring us new 
hope. The dreariness was gone out of her eyes, with the strange 
sad look of fixed speculation and the dreamy gloom. 

‘‘Yes, Laddy,” she said, catching my look and understand- 
ing it. “ Yes, Laddy, I am more hopeful now Leonard has 
come home again. I do not know how, but I am certain that 
he will help us.” 

On this morning there was a Function of some kind — a 
Launch — a Eeception — a Royal Visit — going on in the Dock- 
yard. From Celia’s Arbour we could see the ships gay with 
bunting; there were occasional bursts of music ; it must have 
been a Launch, because the garrison bands were playing while 
the people assembled in the shed, the naval and military 
officers in full uniform ; the civil servants in the uniform ot 
the Dockyard Volunteers — not those of i860, but an earlier 
regiment, not so efficient, and with a much more gorgeous 
uniform ; ladies in full war-paint, each in her own uniform, 
prepared to distract the male eye from contemplation too pro- 
longed of naval architecture; the Mayor and Aldermen in gown 
and gold chain, splendid to look upon, in official seats, ready 
with an address ; and no doubt, though one could only see him, 
as well as the Corporation, with the eyes of imagination, there 
would be among them all Ferdinand Brambler, note-book in 
hand, jerking his head up at the sky and making a note ; look- 
ing at his watch and making a note ; gazing for a few moments 
thoughtfully at the crowd and making a note — all in the 
Grand Historical Style — and not at all as if he was calculating 


32 ^ BY CELIA’S ABBOUH. 

the while what items of domestic consumption this Ceremony 
would run to.” 

Presently, turning from the contemplation of the flags and 
discussion of hidden splendours, we saw, mounting the grass 
slope, with the most hypocritical face in the world, as if his 
coming was by the merest accident, Leonard himself. 

“ You here, Leonard ? ” 

Yes, Celia.” Now that I looked again, I saw that his 
face had a grave and thoughtful expression. It was that of 
a mau, I thought, who has a thing to say. She read that 
look in his eye, I believe, because she grew confused, and 
held me more tightly by the arm. 

It did not seem to me that there was any occasion here for 
beating about the bush, and pretending to have appoint- 
ments. Why should I make up a story about leaving some- 
thing behind ? So I put the case openly. “ Leonard has 
asked me to leave you with him, Cis, for half an hour. I 
shall walk as far as the Hospital and sit down. In half an 
hour I will come back.” 

She made no reply, and I left them there — alone. There 
was no one but themselves in the Queen’s Bastion, and I 
thought, as I walked away, that if Heaven had thought fit 
to make me a lover like the rest of mankind, there was no 
place in the world where I would sooner declare my love than 
Celia s Arbour — provided I could whisper the tale into Celia’s 
own ear. 

Half an hour to wait. At the end of the long straight 
curtain, in the middle of which was the Lion’s Gate, with its 
little octagonal stone watch-tower, and where the wooden 
railings fenced off* the exercise-ground of the Convalescent 
Hospital, I found the little Brambler children playing, and 
stood watching them. They took up fully ten minutes. 
Three tall, gaunt soldiers, thin and pale from recent sickness, 
were on the other side of the fence watching them too. One 
of them bore on his cap the number of Leonard’s regiment. 

I asked him if he knew Captain Copleston. 

He laughed. “Gentleman Jack?” he asked. “Why, 
who doesn’t know Gentleman Jack? I was in the ranks 


LOVE’S VICTORY. 


329 

with him. Always a gentleman, though, and the smartest 
man in the regiment. It was him as took the Rifle Pit. That 
was the making of him. And no one grudged him the luck. 
Some sense making him an officer.’’ 

From which I gathered that there were other officers in 
the regiment who had not commended themselves to this 
good fellow’s admiration. 

The Bramblers, headed by Forty-six, now a sturdy lad of 
twelve, were celebrating an imaginary banquet, in imitation 
of last night’s tremendous and unexpected feed. The eldest 
boy occupied the chair, and ably sustained the outward forms 
of carving, inviting to titbits, a little more of the gravy, the 
addition of a piece of fat, a slice of the silver side, another 
helping, pressing at the same time a cordial invitation on all 
to drink, with a choice of liquors which did infinite credit to 
his information and his inventive faculty, and sending about 
invisible plates and imaginary goblets with an alacrity and 
hospitality worthy of a One-eyed Calendar at the feast of a 
Barmecide or a super at a theatrical banquet. It was an 
idyllic scene, and one enjoyed it all the more because the 
children — their breakings-out were better already — entered 
into the spirit of the thing with such keen delight, because 
one knew that at home there was awaiting them the goodly 
remnant of that noble round of beef ; and because the historio- 
graphically gifted Ferdinand had found fresh and worthy 
subjects for his pen, which might result, if judiciously 
handled, in many legs of mutton. 

By a combination of circumstances needless here to explain, 
Forty-six subsequently became, and is still, a shorthand 
reporter. He does not go into the Gallery of the House, 
because he prefers reporting public dinners, breakfasts, and 
all those Functions where eating and drinking come into 
play. You may recognise his hand, if you remember to 
think of it, when you read the reports of such meetings in 
the accuracy, the fulness, and the feeling which are shown in 
his notice of the viands and the drinks. It is unnecessary to 
say that he has never parted with the twist which charac- 
terised him as a boy, and was due to the year of his birth. 




BY CELIACS ABBOtifi. 


and he may be seen at that Paradise of Eeporters, the Cheshire 
Cheese, taking two steaks to his neighbour’s one ; after the 
steaks, ordering a couple of kidneys on toast, being twice 
as much as anybody else, and taking cheese on a like liberal 
scale. He is said, also, to have views of great breadth in the 
matter of stout, and to be always thirsty on the exhibition 
of Scotch whiskey. 

When I was tired of watching the boys and girls, I strolled 
part of the way back, and sat down on the grassy bank in 
the shade, while the thoughts flew across my brain like the 
swallows flitting backwards and forwards before me, in the 
shade of the trees and in the sunshine. 

Leonard and Celia on the Queen’s Bastion together. I, 
apart and alone. Of two, one is taken and the other left. 
They would go together, hand in hand, along the flowery 
lane, and I should be left to make my lonely pilgrimage 
without them. Who could face this thing without some 
sadness? All around were the sights and sounds which 
would weave themselves for ever in my brain with recollec- 
tions of Celia and of Leonard and the brave days of old. How 
many times had she and I leaned over the breastwork watch- 
ing the little buglers on the grassy ravelin beyond the moat 
practising the calls, all the summer afternoon ? How many 
times had we laughed to see the little drummer boys march- 
ing backwards and forwards, each with his drum and pair of 
sticks, beating the tattoo for practice with unceasing ruba- 
dub ? Down in the meadows at my feet, where the buttercup 
stood tall and splendid, we had wandered knee-deep among 
the flowers, when Celia was a tiny little girl. The great and 
splendid harbour behind me, across which we loved to sail in 
and out among the brave old ships lying motionless and 
dismasted on the smooth surface, like the aged one-legged 
tars sitting on their bench in the sunshine, quiet and silent, 
would for ever bear in its glassy surface a reflection of Celia’s 
sweet face. Listen : there is the booming of guns from the 
Blockhouse Fort ; a great ship has come home from a long 
cruise. Is every salute in future to remind me of Celia ? 
Or again — do you hear it? The muiffled drum; the flfe; 


LOVE S VIOTOHV. 




the dull echo of the big drum at intervals. It is the Dead 
March, and they are burying a soldier, perhaps one of the 
men from India, in the churchyard below the walls. Back- 
wards with a rush goes the memory to that day when 
Leonard stood with me watching such a sight, and refusing 
to believe that such a man, poor private that he was, had 
failed. No doubt ’twas a brave and honest soldier — there is 
the roll of musketry over his grave — God rest his soul ! 
Down below, creeping sluggishly along, go the gangs of 
convicts armed with pick and spade. No funeral march for 
them when their course is run; only the chaplain to read 
the appointed service ; only an ignoble and forgotten grave 
in the mud of Eat Island ; and perhaps in some far-oflF place 
a broken-hearted woman to thank God that her unfortunate, 
weak-willed son has been taken from a world whose tempta- 
tions were too much for his strength of brain. Why, even 
the convicts will make me think of Celia, with whom I have 
so many times watched them come and go. 

All the life of the garrison and seaport town is in these 
things. The great man-o’-war coming home after her three 
years’ cruise ; the launch in the Dockyard ; the boys practis- 
ing the drum and bugle ; the burial of the private soldier ; 
the gang of prisoners — everything is there except Wassie- 
lewski and the Poles. 

All our petty provincial life. Only that ? Why, there is 
in it all the comedy of humanity, its splendour, its pride, its 
hopes, its misery, its death. 

I could look at none of these things — nor can I now — 
wifhout associating them with the days and the companions 
of my youth. 

Sad were the thoughts of those few minutes — a veritable 
maicvais qiiart d'heiire — for I saw that I should speedily lose 
her who was the sunshine of my life. I did not think of the 
many visits we should pay each other, the happy greetings, 
after days of separation, in the future. I thought only of 
the barren hours dragging themselves wearily along, without 
Celia. The rose of love that had sprung up unbidden in 
my heart was plucked indeed, but the pricking of its thorns 


332 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


in my soul made me feel that the plant was still alive. Was, 
then, Celia anything more to me than a sister? I never 
had a sister, and cannot tell. But she was all the world to 
me, my light, my life — although I knew that she would 
never marry me. What, I said to myself, for the half-hour 
was almost up — what can it matter so long as Celia finds 
happiness, if I do not? What selfishness is this that would 
repine because her road lies along the lilies while mine 
seems all among the thorns? After all, to him who goes 
cheerfully among the appointed thorns, a thousand pretty 
blossoms spring up presently beneath his foot. And among 
the briars, to lighten the labours of the march, there climbs 
and twines the honeysuckle. 

While I was sitting with these thoughts in my brain, this 
is what was going on at the Queen’s Bastion. 

Leonard and Celia face to face, the faces of both downcast, 
the one because she was a girl, and knew beforehand what 
would be said ; the other because he reverenced and feared 
the girl before him, and because this was the fatal moment 
on which hung the fulfilment of his life. Above them the 
great leafy branches of the giant elm, prodigal in shade. 

Leonard broke the silence. 

I have been looking for this hour,” he began, stammering 
and uncertain, for five long years. I began to hope for it 
when I first left the town. The hope was well-nigh dead, 
as a child’s cry for the moon ceases when he finds it is too 
far off, while I fought my way up from the ranks. But it 
awoke again the day I received the colours, and it has been 
a living hope ever since, until, as time went on, I began to 
think that some day I might have the opportunity of telling 
you — what I am trying to tell you now. The time has 
come, Celia, and I do not know how to frame the words.” 

She did not reply, but she trembled. She trembled the 
more when he took her hand, and held it in his own. 

“My dear,” he whispered, “my dear, I have no fitting 
words. I want to tell you that I love you. Answer me, 
Celia.” 

“ What am I to say, Leonard ? ** 


tOVE’S VICTORY. 


333 


Tell me what is in your heart. Oh, my darling, tell me 
if you can love me a little in return ? ” 

‘‘Leonard — Leonard!” She said no more. And he 
caught her to his heart, and kissfed her, in that open spot, in 
broad daylight, on the forehead, cheeks, and lips, till she 
drew herself away, shamefaced, frightened. 

“ My dear,” it was nearly all he could say — and they sat 
down presently, side by side upon the grass, and he held 
both her hands together in his. “ My dear, my love, what 
has become of all the fine speeches I would have made about 
my humble origin, and devotion? They all went out of my 
head directly I felt the touch of your hand. I could think 
of nothing, but — I love you — I love you. I have always 
loved you since you were a little child : and now that you 
are so beautiful — so sweet, so good — my queen of womanhood 
— I love you ten times as much as I ever thought I could, 
even when I lay awake at night in the trenches, trying to 
picture such a moment as this. My love, you are too high 
for me. I am not worthy of you.” 

“ Not worthy ? 0 Leonard I — do not say that. You have 

made me proud and happy. What can you find in me, or 
think that there is in me, that you could love me so — for 
five long years ? Are you sure that you are not setting up 
an ideal that you will tire of, and be disappointed when you 
find the reality ? ” 

Disappointed ? He — and with Celia ? 

He released her hands, and laid his arm round her waist. 

“ What a mistake to make I To be in love with a woman 
and to find her an angel. My dear, I am a man of very 
small imagination — not like Laddy, who peoples his Heaven 
with angels like yourself and lives there in fancy always — 
and I am only certain of what I see for myself What I see 
is that you are a pearl beyond all price, and that I love you 
' — and, Celia, I am humble before you. You shall teach me, 
and lead me upwards to your own level, if you can.” 

When I came back, the half-hour expired, they were 
sitting side by side on that slope of tall grass still. But 
they were changed, transformed. Celia’s face was glowing 


334 


M CELIA'S A&BOtlR. 


with a new light of happiness ; it was like the water in tliQ 
harbour that we had once seen touched by the light of the 
rising sun ; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were glistening 
with tears ; one hand lay in Leonard’s, and round her waist 
was Leonard’s arm. 

As for her lover, he was triumphant; it was nothing to 
him that he was making demonstrative love in this public 
place, actually a bastion on the ramparts of Her Majesty’s 
most important naval station and dockyard. To be sure 
there was no one to see them but the swallows, and these 
birds, whose pairing time was over for the season, had too 
much to do fly-catching — the serious business of life being 
well set in for swallows in the month of June — to pay much 
regard to a pair of foolish mortals. 

Come, Laddy,” he cried, springing to his feet and seizing 
her by the hand, while Celia rose all as blushing as Venus 
Ariadyomene, “ be the first to wish that Celia may be happy. 
She has been so foolish, this dear Celia of ours, this dainty 
little Cis, that we love so much, as to say that she will take 
me just as I am, for better and for worse.” He took her 
hand again with that proud and happy look of triumphant 
love, as if he could not bear to let her go for a moment, and 
she nestled close to him as if it was her place, and she loved 
to be near him. “ There is a foolish maiden for you. There 
is an indiscreet and imprudent angel who comes down from 
the heavens to live with us on earth. Congratulate me, 
Laddy, my dear old dreamer. I am so happy.” 

Celia shyly drew her hand away, and came over to me as if 
for protection. I saw how her proud and queenly manner 
was in some way humbled, and that she was subdued, as if 
she had found her master. 

She laid her hand upon my shoulder, in her caressing way, 
which showed me that she was happy, and then I began to 
congratulate them both. After that I made them sit down 
on the grass, while I sat on the wheel of the gun-carriage, 
and I talked sense and reason to them. I told them that 
this kind of engagement was one greatly to be deprecated, that 
it was highly irregular not to go first to head- quarters, and 


LOVERS VIGTOEY. 


335 


to ask permission of parents. That to confess to each other, 
in this impetuous way, of love, and to make promises of 
marriage, were things which even Mr. Pontifex, when the 
passions of his youth were so strong as to make him curse the 
Goose, had not to repent of ; that Mrs. Pontifex had always 
recommended Celia to follow her own example, and wait till 
she was of ripe and mature years before marrying any one, 
and then to marry a man some years younger than herself; 
that they ought to consider how a soldier’s life was a wander- 
ing one, and a captain’s pay not more than enough for the 
simple necessaries ; that they might have to wait till Leonard 
was a field-marshal before consent could be obtained ; that 
the Captain would be greatly astonished ; that neither he nor 
I intended to allow Leonard to carry Cis away with him for 
a long time to come ; nor had we dreamed that such a thing 
would follow when we welcomed him home. Many more 
things I added in the same strain, while Leonard laughed, 
and Cis listened, half laughing and half crying ; and then, 
because the occasion was really a solemn one, I spoke a little 
of my mind. They were good, and bore with me, as I leaned 
over the old gun and talked, looking through the embrasure 
across the harbour. 

I reminded Leonard how, five years ago, he had left us, 
with the resolution to advance himself, and the hope of 
returning and of finding Celia free. Never any man, I told 
him, had such great good fortune as had fallen on him, in 
getting all he hoped and prayed for. And then I tried to 
tell him how for five years the girl whose hand he had won 
had been growing in grace as well as beauty, feeding her 
mind with holy thoughts, and living in forgetfulness of 
herself ; how it had been an education to me to be with her, 
to watch her, to learn from her, and to love and cherish her 
— and then Celia sprang up and interrupted me, and fell 
upon my neck, crying, and kissing me. Oh ! happy day ! 
oh ! day of tears and sunshine ! Oh ! day fruitful of blessed 
memories, when for once we could bare our hearts to each 
other, and show what lay there hid. No need any 
more to pretend. I loved her, and I always had loved 


33 ^ 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


her. She loved me too; if not in the same way, what 
matter ? 

Well, it was all over, Celia was promised to Leonard. 
And yet it seemed as if it was only all begun. Because, 
after a little while, Cis turned to me with a cry, as one who 
remembers something forgotten. 

“ Laddy, what about Herr Raumer ? 

She and I looked at each other in dismay. Leonard 
laughed. 

‘‘ There is Perseus,” I said, pointing to him. ‘‘ He is 
strong and brave. He is come to rescue Andromeda. What 
did I tell you, Cis, the day before he kept his promise ? ” 

She had not forgotten one word about the loathly monster 
and the distressful maiden. 

Now it has all come true,” I said. Meantime, the first 
thing is to tell the Captain. And that I shall go and do this 
minute. You two will come on when you please — when you 
are tired of each other.” 

Leaving them behind me hand in hand was like plunging 
at once into the loneliness which loomed before me when 
they two should be gone. One had no right to be sad. I 
had enjoyed the companionship of Celia for five years, all 
to myself ; it could not be expected that I was to have her 
exclusive society for all my life. Besides, there was Poland 
— it really was hard to keep one’s thoughts in that dark 
groove of revenge ; I constantly forgot my wrongs and my 
responsibilities. Nor did I even, I fear, thoroughly realise 
the delights of battle and the field of patriotic glory. 

At the bottom of the slope there came to meet me the 
very man — old Wassielewski himself. He was radiant. 

Without a word of preface, he cried out, as he seized me 
by the hand: 

“ You are in luck. To-morrow they will call upon you.” 

‘‘ Who ? ” 

The deputies from Basle, Geneva, London, and Paris. 
They will call upon you at three, with me. Be at home to 
m eet them.” 

‘‘ And when, Wassielewski?” 


THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 


337 


When do we begin ? At once ; next week we must start. 
Courage, boy; you go to avenge the blood of your father. 
To-morrow — to-morrow — at three.” 

He waved his arms like the sails of a windmill. 

Just then the bands in the yard, amid a deafening shout, 
because the ship was launched, struck up a splendid march. 

“ Listen,” he cried. That is an omen. Hear the music 
which welcomes the news of another Polish rebellion. A 
good omen. A good omen.” 

He sped swiftly away. 

But it was a wedding-march, and I thought of Leonard 
and Celia. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 

I WAS walking along the street after leaving this pair of 
lovers, full of thought, with my eyes on the ground, 
when I was aware of a voice calling my name. It was 
Augustus Brambler tearing along the pavement without a 
hat, a quill — Augustus would never descend to the meanness 
of a steel pen while in the Legal — still behind one ear, his 
coat tails flying behind him, enthusiastically anxious to 
execute an order for the Chief. It was a simple message, 
asking me to step in and see Mr. Tyrrell. I complied,^and 
turned back. 

‘‘ And the children ? ” I asked. 

Better, Mr. Pulaski. The Breabings-out have almost 
disappeared, thanks to an increase of Affluence. My brother 
Ferdinand is hard at work on his new series of papers. He 
calls them ‘ Reminiscences of the Crimea,’ compiled from 
Captain Copleston’s private information combined with the 
back numbers of the Illustrated London News^ and the 
morning’s Launch will be new boots all round. I don’t 
think,” he added in a whisper, that the Chief is very well. 
Herr Raumer was with him this morning before he went 
into the Yard, and when he sent for me just now he was 
pale, and shivered. No one knows what we lawyers go 

Y 


338 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUK. 


through: no one can guess the wear and tear of brain. 
Dear me ! On Saturday night I often tell Mrs. Erambler 
that I feel as if another day would finish me off. But then 
Sunday comes, when Ferdinand and I can sit over our wine 
like gentlemen, and rest. Here we are, Mr. Pulaski,” 
sinking his voice to a whisper. I must return to a most 
important Case. Talk of intricacy ! Ah ! ” 

Mr. Tyrrell was leaning against the mantle-shelf, looking, 
as Augustus said, anything but well. The Mayor’s robes 
lay in his arm-chair, and round his neck still hung the great 
gold chain of ofiice. Usually a high-coloured, fiorid man, with 
a confident carriage, he was now pale and trembling. His 
hands trembled; his lips trembled; his shoulders stooped. 
What was it that had placed him in another man’s power ? 

‘‘ Ladislas,” he groaned, I wish I were dead ! ” 

That seems, certainly, the simplest solution of difficulties. 
I suppose every man, at some crisis in his fortune, has 
wished the same. At such times, when it seems as though 
everything was slipping under one’s feet, and the solid 
foundation of wealth, honour, name, all the fabric of years, 
was tumbling to pieces like a pack of cards, even the un- 
certainty of the dread Future seems easier to face than the 
changes of the Present. Here was a man who mounted 
steadily, swiftly, without a single check, up the ladder of 
Fortune. He had saved money, bought houses, owned lands, 
possessed the best practice in the town, held municipal dis- 
tinctions, was the envy of younger men and the admiration of 
his own contemporaries ; and now, from some real or fancied 
power which this German possessed over him, he was stricken 
with a mortal terror and sickness of brain. 

“ I wish I were dead ! ” he repeated. 

Tell me what has happened, Mr. Tyrrell.” 

He has been here again. That is nothing — he always is 
here. But he came with a special purpose last night. He 
came to say that he wanted an answer.” 

‘‘ Wants an answer ? ” 

“ Celia must give him her decision.” 

I am very — very glad, Mr. Tyrrell,” I said, that he 


THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 339 

did not want it yesterday morning. I will tell you why 
presently,” 

“ He is jealous of young Oopleston. Says Celia sat up 
all night with him and you when he came home. Is that 
true ? ” 

‘‘ Quite. We had so much to say that we did not separate 
till five in the morning.” 

‘^To be sure, you were all then children together. Why, 

you used to play in the garden and on the walls ” 

And so Herr Eaumer is jealous?” I asked, interrupting. 

‘‘He is mad with jealousy. He accuses me of fostering 
an attachment — as if I know anything about attachments ! 

• — he declares that he must have an answer to-morrow 
morning, and if it is not favourable ” 

“ My dear friend and benefactor,” I said, “ suppose it is 
not favourable. Can he take away your daughter ? Can he 
rob you of your money ? What can he do to you ? ” 

“ I dare not tell — even you, Laddy,” he replied. “ Money ? 
No. He cannot touch my possessions. My daughter? No; 
he cannot carry her off. But he can almost do as bad. He 
can — he can — lower me in ^the eyes of the world ; he can 
proclaim — if he will — a thing that men who do not know 
the whole truth will judge harshly. And he will disgrace 
me in the eyes of my daughter.” 

I was silent, thinking what to say. 

Presently I ventured to ask him whether it would not 
disgrace him more in the eyes of Celia for him to lend his 
favour to a suit so preposterous. 

He groaned in reply. 

“ You do not know, Laddy,” he said, “ the trouble I have 
had to build up a name in this place, where I began as a boy 
who swept the oflSce, the son of a common labourer. My 
brothers are labourers still, and content with their position. 
My sisters are labourers' wives, and content as well. I am 
the great man of the family. I had much to contend with, 
want of education, poverty, everything but ability. I am 
sure I had that because I surmounted all, and became — what 
I am. Then I married into a good family, and took their 


340 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


level. And the old low levels were forgotten. Why, if all 
the world were to remind each other aloud that I once swept 
out an office, it would not matter.” 

Of course not, sir. Pray go on.” 

It is fifteen years ago, when Herr Eaumer first came to 
the town. He had a plausible tongue and wheedled himselt 
into the confidence of all whom he cared to know. H(3 
wanted to know me. He made me his lawyer — sent round 
that great safe, where it has been ever since, and used to sit 
with me in the evening talking affairs. There was nothing 
in the town too small for him to inquire into ; he wanted the 
secret history of everything: and he got it from me; I 
violated no confidence of clients, but told him all I knew.” 

Did he talk much about the Poles ? ” 

He was at first very inquisitive about the Poles. Said 
he sympathised with them — I did not, so I had little to tell 
him. Then came the time when they made the railway on 
our side of the harbour ” 

He paused for a moment. 

“ that was the fatal time. I yielded to his instigations. 

and, together, we never mind what it was, Laddy. It 

was nothing that could bring me within the power of the Law, 
but it was an action which, stated in a certain way, would 
ruin me for ever in the town.” 

Successful men, I think, are apt to over-estimate the 
opinion which men have formed of them. They know that 
they are envied for their success, which is real ; and they 
easily persuade themselves that they are admired for their 
virtues, which are imaginary. I do not believe that the 
town at large would have cared twopence if Herr Eaumer 
had gone to the balcony of the old Town Hall, and after 
sticking up a glove in the old fashion of the burgesses when 
a town Function was about to begin, such as the opening of 
the fair, had there in clear and ringing tones denounced the 
great Mr. Tyrrell of such and such a meanness. They would 
have lifted their eyebrows, talked to each other for a day, 
reflected in the morning that be was rich and powerful, and 
then would have gone on as if nothing had happened. Be- 


THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 


341 


cause I do not think that any man in the place, however 
unsuccessful, believed in his heart that Mr. Tyrrell was a bit 
more virtuous than himself. But that the lawyer would not 
understand. 

I think that one of Eochefoucauld’s maxims is omitted in 
all the editions. -It has somehow slipped out. And it is 
this — 

Every man believes himself more virtuous than any 
other man. If the other man is found out, that proves the 
fact.” 

I was thinking out this moral problem, and beginning to 
test its truth by personal application to my own case, when I 
was roused by the consciousness that Mr. Tyrrell was talk- 
ing still. 

‘‘ Terrible and long labour in building a name as a 

Christian as well as a lawyer good opinion of the 

clergy ” 

It^was very wonderful, but the theory did seem to fit 
marvellously well. I really did believe myself quite as good 
as any of my neighbours — except Celia and the Captain — 
and better than most ! much better than the Reverend John 
Pontifex. 

“ Tell me what you think, Laddy.” 

^^I think, sir,” I replied, ^‘that I would lay the case 
before the Captain, and ask his opinion. I know what it 
will be.” 

“ You think ” 

I know that he will say, ‘ Laugh at him, and tell him to 
do the worst. Let him tell a miserable old story to all the 
town, but let Celia follow her own heart.’ And another 
thing, Mr. Tyrrell — Celia’s heart is no longer free.” 

“ What ? Was he right ? ” 

Quite right. Herr Raumer is a very clever man, and he 
seldom makes a mistake. Half an hour ago Celia listened 
to Leonard Copleston, and they are now engaged.” 

‘‘It only wanted that,” he replied with a groan. 

This looked as if things were going to be made cheerful for 
the lovera 


342 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUK. 


Will you see the Captain if he comes to you ? Or, better 
still, will you go yourself and talk things over with him ? It 
is half-past twelve, and he will be home by this time. And 
tell him all." 

“ I must have advice,” he murmured. I feel like a sink- 
ing ship. The Captain will stand by me whatever happens. 
Yes, Laddy — yes. I will go at once— at once ” 

He rose, and with trembling hands began to search for his 
hat. 

It was standing on the safe — the closed safe — with the 
name of Herr Eaumer ” upon it in fat white letters. 

Mr. Tyrrell shook his fist at the door. 

“ You are always here,” he cried, with your silent 
menace. If you were open for five minutes — if I had the 
key in my hands for only half a minute — I should know 
what answer to give your master.” 

He left me, and went out into the street, I after him. But 
he forgot my presence, and went on without me, murmuring 
as he went in the misery and agitation of his heart.- 

I suppose it was the pondering over this successful man as 
over a curious moral problem, and a certain uplifting of heart as 
I reflected that there was nothing at all for me to be ashamed 
of, even if I was found out, that laid me more than commonly 
open to temptation. 

At all events, it was then that I committed the meanest 
action in my life — a thing which, whenever I meet my 
accomplice, even after all these years, makes me blush for 
shame. 

My innocent accomplice was no other than little Forty- 
four. 

As I was passing the Bramblers’ house in Castle Street, 
Mr. Tyrrell being some twenty yards ahead of me, and going 
straight away to consult with the Captain, I not being wanted 
at all, I thought I would call upon my friends. No one was 
at home except Forty-four, who was sitting before the open 
kitchen window sewing and crooning some simple ditty to 
herself. Her mother was gone a-marketing — that was good 
news. Uncle Ferdinand, who had received an advance upon 


THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 


343 


his series of papers called “ Personal Recollections of the 
War’' — everybody remembers what a sensation those articles 
caused — was gone out with his note-book to attend the 
Launch. Augustus Brambler was at his post, no doubt 
engaged on his labyrinthian case. The children were all on 
the walls where I had left them playing their little game of 
Feasting: And Forty-four was in charge of the family pot, 
which was cheerfully boiling on the fire. 

She looked up with her bright laugh. 

‘‘ Come into the kitchen, Mr. Pulaski, if you don’t mind. 
I’ve something to tell you.” 

What is it ? ” I asked. “ Are things looking better ? ” 
Oh ! yes. Thanks to you know who. We had a dreadful 
time, though. The man the people call Tenderart — do you 
know him ? ” 

I knew him and his satellite of old. 

“ He is our landlord, and he came to take the things to 
make up the rent. There he stood and began to pick out the 
things to put in a cart. Uncle Ferdinand asked for time, and 
the man only laughed. Then Uncle Ferdinand banged his 
head against the wall and said this was the final Crusher, 
and we all cried. Then papa ran to get an advance from 
Mr. Tyrrell.” 

‘‘ Did you ask Herr Eaumer ? ” 

Yes ; I went up to ask him — and he said politely, that 
he never helped anybody on principle. Well, papa got the 
advance, but it was stopped out of his salary, and so — you see 
— we have had very little to eat ever since. But Tenderart 
was paid, and he went away.” 

‘‘ I see ; and now things are better ? ” 

‘‘Yes. Because Uncle Ferdinand has found something to 
write about. And papa has got the most beautiful idea for 
making all our fortunes. See.” 

She opened a paper which lay upon the table, and showed 
it to me. It was written in a clerkly hand, partly couched 
in legal English, and referred to a scholastic project. So 
that in this document the threefold genius of Augustus was 
manifest. 


344 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


Eoyal Collegiate Establishment 
“ For the Education of loth Sexes, 

Conducted by the Brothers Brambler. 

‘^The object of this Institution is to impart to the young 
an education to fit them for the Learned Professions, for 
Commerce, for the Legal, the Scholastic, or the Clerical. 
Pupils will be received from the age of eight to fifteen. The 
College will be divided into two divisions, that for the ladies 
under the management of Mrs. Brambler, a lady highly con- 
nected with the Eoyal Naval Service, and Miss Lucretia 
Brambler.’’ 

‘‘ That’s me,” said Forty- four ungrammatically. 

1 thought you had no name,” I said. 

“Mr. Ferdinand Brambler, the well-known Author, will 
undertake the courses of History, Geography, Political 
Economy, and English Composition. Mr. Augustus Brambler 
will superintend the classes of Latin, Euclid, Arithmetic, and 
Caligraphy ” 

“ My dear, when is the college to be started ? ” 

“ Oh ! not yet,” cried Forty-four. “ When we are a little 
older, and all able to take a part in the curriculum. Fancy 
the greatness ! ” 

“Yes. It is almost too much, is it not? Don’t set your 
heart too much on things. Forty- four.” I did not finish the 
document, and returned it. The poorer Augustus grew, the 
more brilliant were his schemes. So Hogarth’s starving poet 
sits beneath a plan of the mines of Potosi. “ Is Herr Eaumer 
at home ? ” 

“ I think he is gone out. Shall I run up to see ? ” 

We went up together. I had nothing to say, and no 
reason for calling, but I was excited and restless. 

He was not in his rooms. The table was littered and 
strewn with foreign papers, German, French, and Eussian. 
The piano was littered with his songs — those little senti- 
mentalities of student life of which he was never tired. 
There was the usual strong smell of recent tobacco in the 


The key of the safe. 


34S 

place, and — it caught my eye as I was going away — there 
lay in an inkstand on the table — a temptation. 

It was the key of the safe. 

I turned twice to go, twice I came back, drawn by the 
irresistible force of that temptation. It riveted my eyes, it 
made my knees tremble beneath me, it seemed to drag my 
hand from my side, to force the fingers to close over it, to 
convey itself, by some secret life of its own, to my pocket, 
and, once there, to urge me on to further action. 

Mr. Pulaski,'’ cried Forty-four, ‘‘ why are you so red in 
the face? What is the matter? ” 

“ Hush ! ” I whispered ; stay here for five minutes, Forty- 
four — if Herr Eaumer comes home, bustle about and prevent 
his touching the table. And say nothing — promise to say 
nothing.” 

She promised, understanding no word. 

I furtively descended the stairs, I crept swiftly, in the 
shade of the wall, though it was of course broad daylight, 
looking backwards and forwards, though there were only the 
usual people in the street, with beating heart and flushed 
face, towards Mr. Tyrrell’s office. The outer door was open, 
that was usual ; I pushed into the hall, and silently turned 
the handle of the chiefs own office. It was not locked — 
they did not know he was out — there was, of course, no one 
in the room. Like some burglar in the dead of night I crept 
noiselessly over the carpet to open the safe. 

It was done. 

I was back in the street, the key in my hand ; I was back 
at the Bramblers’ house, I was upstairs again, the key was 
restored to its place. I seized Forty-four by the hand, and 
hurried her downstairs. 

“ What is it ? ” she asked again. 

Eemember, Forty-four, you have promised to tell no one. 
It was the key of Herr Eaumefs safe. I borrowed it for 
five minutes — for Celia Tyrrell’s sake.” 

She promised again — nothing, she said, would make her 
tell any one. No one should know that I had been in the 
room : she entered as zealously into the conspiracy as if she 


346 


BY CELIA'S AKBOUK. 


was a grown woman married to a St. Petersburg diplomatist, 
and engaged in throwing dust into the eyes of an English 
plenipotentiary. 


OHAPTEE XXXIX 

BORKOWED PLUMES. 

M eantime, we had not forgotten our old friend Moses. 

The “ Blue Anchor’’ was a music hall before that kind 
of entertainment was supposed to be invented. That is to 
say, long before the name of music was debased, and song 
dragged in the dust before London audiences of shop-boys 
and flashy gents, the thing was already flourishing in our 
seaport towns for the benefit of soldiers and sailors. The 
“Anchor,” as it was lovingly called, stood in a crowded 
street, where every second house was a beershop, and the 
house between a pawnbroker’s. It had a parterre, or pit, 
the entrance to which was free, where Jack the Sailor, Joe 
the Marine, and the Boiled Lobster could sit in comfort and 
dignity, each man with his pipe in his mouth and his pot 
before him. It was a long, high, and narrow room. At the 
end stood a platform, where the performances took place, 
and under the platform, just as you may see in the present 
London houses, was a table where the proprietor, acting as 
Chairman, announced the songs and dances, called order, 
and superintended the comfort of his guests. A small and 
select band of admirers rallied round the Chairman, and 
were privileged not only to call for drinks to assuage the 
great man’s thirst, but also from time to time to take the 
hammer of authority. At the other end of the hall was a 
small gallery, where young naval officers and subalterns 
sometimes honoured the representations by their appearance. 
It was to this gallery that we repaired, Leonard and I, 
accompanied by a second lieutenant of the Navy. He was 
a cheerful youth, of smiling demeanour, whose chief merit 
in my eyes was his unbounded admiration for Leonard. He 
met us by accident, and volunteered to join us, not knowing 


BORROWED PLUMES. 


347 


tlie nature of our quest ; on being informed that there might 
be a row, he became the more eager to come with us. The 
fervent prayer of every young naval oflBcer, on every pos- 
sible occasion, that there may be a row, is surely a healthy 
distinguishing characteristic of the Navy. Certainly the 
members of no other service or profession with which I am 
acquainted are desirous of a fight on any possible occasion. 

We went, therefore, into the gallery, where there were a 
dozen of noisy middies and young naval fellows, who had 
been dining not wisely, but too well. 

There was an interval in the performance, and a buzz of 
conversation going on. Now and then one of the audience 
would lift up his voice with a snatch of a chorus, to be 
taken up by his neighbours, or, if it was a favourite, by the 
whole audience. ‘ 

We looked about the room. No Moses had arrived yet. 
That was quite certain, because from our gallery we could 
see everybody in the hall, and there was no doubt about our 
recognising Moses — so old a friend. 

We sat down in the front row and looked on. 

Down came the hammer, with some inaudible remarks 
from the Chair. There was silence for a moment, and then 
a shout, not of applause, but of derision, as a man, dressed 
in sailor rig, bounded on the stage, and began to dance a 
hornpipe. 

“ Where was you shipped, mate ? ” “ When was you last 

paid off?” There was no denying the dance, which was 
faithfully executed, but in consequence of the absence of 
some professional detail, probably in the dancer’s get-up, 
the sailors with one consent refused to recognise him as a 
brother. The row grew tremendous as the performer went 
on, resolutely refusing to recognise any objection raised to 
his personal appearance. At last a stalwart young fellow 
bounded from a table in the auditorium to the platform, 
coolly hustled the professional with a hitch or two of his 
shoulder off the stage, and proceeded to execute the horn- 
pipe himself, amid the exclamations of his comrades and 
brethren of the sister services. The band, consisting of two 


348 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


fiddles, a harp, and a cornet, went on playing steadily, 
whatever happened in the house. It was like Wassielewski, 
fiddling while the sailors sang, drank, and danced — himself 
unregarding. 

The dance over, and the applause subsided, the young 
fellow jumped back to his place, and down came the Chair- 
man’s knocker again. Sam Trolloper, he announced, this 
time — without any prefix or handle to the name, as if one 
would say Charles Dickens, or Julius Csesar — was about to 
sing the Song of the Day. 

The illustrious Sam, who was a popular favourite, and re- 
ceived the vociferous applause as something due to real merit, 
appeared in a suit of shore-going togs. He wore a coat all 
tails, with a hat all brim, and trousers of which one leg was 
gone, and the other going. Boots without socks,, a ragged 
shirt and a red kerchief tied around his neck, completed a 
garb which, coupled with the fellow’s face of low cunning 
and inextinguishable drollery, made him up into as complete 
an habitual criminal as you are likely to meet outside of 
Short’s Gardens. He brandished a short stick, with a short 
preliminary walk across the stage, and then began the 
following : — 


’Tis oh ! for a gay and a gallant bark, 

A brisk and a lively breeze, 

A bully crew and a captain too, 

To carry me o’er the seas. 

To carry me o’er the seas, my boys, 

To my own true love so gay, 

Eor she’s taking of a trip 
In a Government ship, 

Ten thousand miles away. 

Then blow, ye winds, heigho ! 

For a roaming we will go, 

I’ll stay no more on England’s shores 
Then let the music play ; 

For I’m off by the morning train 
Across the raging main, 

I’m on the rove to my own true love. 
Ten thousand miles away. 

•• My true love she was beautiful. 

My true love she was fair, 


BOKEOWED PLUMES. 


349 


Her eyes were blue as the violets true, 

And crimson was her hair. 

And crimson was her hair, my boys, 

But while I sing this lay 
She’s doing of the grand 
In a distant land, 

Ten thousand miles away. 

** The sun may shine through a London fog; 
The Thames run bright and clear, 

The ocean brine may turn to wine 
Ere I forget my dear. 

Ere I forget my dear, my boys. 

The landlord his quarter day, 

Eor I never can forget 
My own dear pet. 

Ten thousand miles away. 

** Oh ! dark and dismal was the day 
When last I saw my Meg, 

She’d a Government band around each hand^ 
Another one round each leg. 

Another one round each leg, my boy^ 
Dressed all in a suit of grey, 

*My love,’ said she, 

‘Eemember me. 

Ten thousand miles away.* 

Oh I would I were a bo’s’n tight. 

Or e’en a bombardier ; 

I’d hurry afloat in an open boat, 

And to my true love steer. 

And to my true love steer, my boys. 

Where the dancing dolphins play, 

And the shrimps and the sharks 
Are a having of their larks 
Ten thousand miles away. 

Then blow, ye winds, heigho ! 

Eor a roaming we will go, 

I’ll stay no more on England’s shore^ 
Then let the music play ; 

Eor I’m off by the morning train 
Across the raging main. 

I’m on the rove to my own true love. 
Ten thousand miles away.” 


This ditty, which the singer gave with a rich rollicking 
baritone, and in a rolling tune, was accompanied by a chorus 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


3SO 

from a couple of hundred throats, which made the windows 
rattle and the glasses vibrate. Such a chorus, all bawling 
in unison, I never heard before. When the last bars, affec- 
tionately clung to by voices loth to let them go, died away, 
the illustrious Sam had disappeared, only to emerge again in 
a new disguise and sing another song. But, as the hammer 
fell to announce his return, Leonard touched my arm, and I 
saw our old friend Moses walking grandly among the chairs 
in the direction of the President. 

I had not seen him for more than twelve years, but there 
was no mistaking his identity. It was the same dear old 
Moses. There was no real change in him ; only a develop- 
ment of the well-known boyish graces. The blotches upon 
his fat and bloated face ; the swagger with which he swung 
along the room ; the hat cocked on one side of his head ; the 
short stick carried half in the side pocket of his coat ; the 
flashy rings upon his fingers ; the gaudy necktie ; and the 
loud pattern of his trousers — all seemed part and parcel of the 
original Moses. He was only the infant Moses grown up ; 
Mrs. Jeram’s Moses expanded, according to the immutable 
laws of Nature, which allow of no sudden break, but only a 
wavy line of continuity. Selfish, greedy, and unscrupulous 
he had been as a child, just such he appeared now. Was it 
education alone, I thought, which made the difference between 
him and Leonard ? It could hardly be that, because there 
was Jem Hex, himself as good a fellow as ever piped all 
hands, to set on the other side. Leonard ! For a moment 
he stood irresolute, his hands clenched, just as he used to 
look in the days of old before he ‘‘went for” Moses. He 
waited till he saw his enemy seated by the Chairman. Then 
he touched my arm, and strode across the benches of the 
gallery to the door. I followed, and so did our friend the 
Navy man. We got downstairs and followed Leonard closely 
as he marched, head erect and with flashing eyes, straight 
up the hall. 

There was a little commotion among the soldiers at sight 
of him. 

“Gentleman Jack,” the men whispered to each other. 


BOEKOWED PLUMES. 


351 


Leonard took no notice. One or two of them stood up to 
salute him. Three cheers for Gentleman Jack and the 
Eif] e-pit,” shouted an enthusiastic private of his regiment. 
Everybody knew about the Eifle-pit, and the cheering was 
taken up with a will. Leonard stopped for a moment and 
looked round. When the cheers ceased he held up his hand 
and nodded. Three times three. The music, meantime, 
went on, and the singer made no pause. It was the illustrious 
Sam again — this time in the disguise of a soldier — supposed 
to be in liquor, and suffering from the melancholy of a love 
disappointment, as appeared from the only two lines of the 
Bong which I heard : — 

“ There I see the faithless she, 

A cooking sausages for he,” 

But the attention of the audience was at this point wholly 
distracted from the singer. The Chairman and the band 
alone paid attention to him : these were of course profession- 
ally engrossed in admiration of the performance. For two 
circumstances, besides the cheering for Leonard, and both 
of an agreeable and pleasing character, happened at this 
juncture to call away the thoughts of the men from imaginary 
sorrows. The first was that the middies in the gallery, having 
succeeded in hooking up a soldier s cap by means of a string 
and a pin, were now hauling away at their line, while the 
owner vainly imprecated wrath below. To join common 
cause with a comrade is the first duty of a soldier. A dozen 
men instantly jumped upon the tables, and a brief parley, in 
which strong words were answered with gentle chaff, was 
followed by a storm of pewter pots, whose battered sides 
indicated that they had before this hurtled through the air 
on a similar occasion. The middies instantly ducked, and 
the shower of projectiles passed as harmlessly over their 
heads as a cannonade at a modern siege. The storm having 
ceased, one middy, cautiously peeping over the gallery, seized 
the moment of comparative calm and hurled a pewter back. 
Instantly another and a fiercer hail of pint-pots. These 
having ceased, the middies swiftly creep over the seats and 


352 


BY CELIACS AEBOUR. 


skedaddle, keaving over a spare half-dozen ere they reach the 
portals and fly down the stairs. When the brave redcoats 
have swarmed up the eight feet pillars and stormed the 
gallery, they found it like another Malakoff — empty. Then 
they shout. Who can withstand the bravery of the British 
soldier ? All this takes time and attracts attention. Mean- 
time another scene is enacted at our end of the hall. 

Leonard stalking up the room, the red-jackets shouting for 
‘‘ Gentleman Jack,” the curiosity of those who do not know 
him, draw upon us the eyes of our old enemy, Moses. He 
knows us instantly, and with a hasty gesture to the Chair- 
man, whose glass he has just filled, he rises, to effect a 
retreat by the way of the orchestra and under the stage- door. 
Not so fast, friend Moses. Leonard makes for him ; there is 
a cry, and the pretender to the name of Copleston is dragged 
back to the table by the coat-collar. Now — you — whatever 
you call yourself,” cries Leonard. ‘‘ What do you mean by 
taking my name ? ” 

‘^Let me go.” Moses wriggles under the grasp which 
held him by the coat-collar like a vice, and drags him back- 
wards upon the table among the glasses, where he lies like 
a turned turtle, feet up and hands sprawling, a very pitiable 
spectacle. 

Let me go, I say.” 

‘‘ Presently. Tell me your name.” 

‘‘ Moses Copleston,” he replied, with an attempt afc 
defiance. 

Liar ! ” 

Moses Copleston, oh ! Won’t any one help a fellow ?” 

“ Liar again ! ” 

‘‘ Let me get up, then.” 

Leonard let him rise, his friend the Lieutenant being at the 
other side of the table, and a few of his own men having 
gathered round, so that there was little chance of the man’s 
escape. 

‘‘ What have I done to you now ? ” whined Moses. What 
have I done to you, I should like to know ? See here, 
Mr. Chairman of this respectable Free-and-Easy Harmonic 


BOEEOWED PLUMES. 


353 


Meeting, what did I say to him ? What did I do to him ? 
Here’s a pretty go for a peaceable man to be set upon for 
nothing.” 

“ Why have you dared to take my name,” cried Leonard, 
to drag into police courts and prisons ? ” 

Your name? OLord! jERsname! What a thing to take! 

Which he was born in Victory Row, and his mother ” 

Here a straight one from the left floored Moses, and he fell 
supine among the chairs, not daring to arise. 

The Lieutenant picked him up, and placed him — because 
he declined to stand : and, indeed, the claret was flowing 
freely — in the President’s arm-chair. 

‘‘ Yar — yar 1 ” he moaned. Hit a man when he is down. 
Hit your own brother. Yar — Cain — Cain — Cain and Abel ! 
Hit you own twin brother.” 

Liar, again,” said Leonard calmly. Do you see any 
likeness, Grif,” — Grif was the sobriquet of the young sailor — 
“ between me and this — this cur and cad ? ” 

“ Can’t say I do, old man.” 

He has taken my name ; he has traded on it ; by repre- 
senting himself to be — my mother’s son — he has obtained from 
some one money to spend in drink. I do not know who that 
person is. But I mean to know.” 

“ Ho ! ho 1 ” laughed Moses, mopping up the blood. 
Can’t hit a man when he’s down. Yaw ! Shan’t get up. 
Wouldn’t he like to know, then ? Ho I ho I ” 

‘^Get a policeman,” said Grif. ‘^Follow him up and 
down.” 

Beg pardon, sir,” said one of the men, saluting Leonard, 
best search his pockets.” 

Moses turned pale and buttoned up his coat. 

“ That seems sound advice, Leonard,” I said. Sit down^ 
and let the men do it for you.” 

Well — it was a strange performance in an Harmonic 
meeting, but it attracted considerable attention, much more 
than the ditty which it interrupted ; as much as the flight 
of pewters backwards and forwards in the lower end of the 
gallery. 


354 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUB. 


They told off four, under a corporal, and then they seized 
the unhappy Moses. First the Chairman said he would turn 
down the lights, but was persuaded by Grif, not without a 
gentle violence, to sit down comfortably, and see fair play. 
Then the orchestra left off playing to see this novelty in 
rows, a thing they hadn’t done, except in the daytime and 
on Sundays, for twenty years. Then the Illustrious Baritone, 
Sam, himself came down from the stage to witness the scene. 
And, but for the kicks, the struggles, the many unrighteous 
words used by the victim, one might have thought that 
it was the unrolling by a group of savans of an Egyptian 
mummy. 

First they took off his coat. It contained, in his pockets, 
the following articles : — 

1. A twopenny smoke,” as described by the Corporal. 

2. A pipe constructed of sham meerschaum. 

3. A box of fusees. 

4. The portrait of a young lady (daguerreotype) in digagSe 
costume. 

5. A penknife. 

6. Three pawnbrokers’ tickets. 

7. A small instrument which, the Corporal suggested, was 
probably intended to pick locks with. 

8. Another twopenny smoke.” 

9. A sixpenny song book, containing one hundred sprightly 
ballads. 

There was nothing else in the coat, but I was certain 
something else would follow, because I had noticed the man’s 
sudden pallor when the operation was suggested. 

They next removed his waistcoat. 

In the pockets were : — 

1. A pipe poker. 

2. A quantity of loose tobacco. 

3. Another “twopenny smoke,” a little broken in the 
back. 

4. Another box of fusees. 

5. More pawnbrokers’ tickets. 

6. The sum of six shillings and twopence. 


BORROWED PLUMES. 


355 

That was all, but on my taking the garment I felt some- 
thing rustle. 

There was an inside pocket to the waistcoat. And in this 
— Moses made a frantic plunge — I found two letters. One, 
in a lady’s handwriting, was addressed to Mr. Copleston, Post 
Office, to be called for ; the other, in what may be best 
described as not a lady’s hand, addressed to Miss Ruther- 
ford, Fareham.” Now, Fareham is a small town at the upper 
end of the harbour. These letters I handed to Leonard. He 
read the address and put them in his pocket. 

“ Miss Rutherford,” he repeated, with a strange light in 
his eyes. 

Moses had recourse to violent language. 

Beg your pardon, sir,” said the Corporal. “ What to do 
next ? ” 

“ Let him go,” said Leonard. Or — stay — put him outside 

the place — but gently.” 

‘‘ Ah ! — Yah ! ” Moses bellowed, bursting into what seemed 
a real fit of weeping. This is the way that a twin brother 
behaves — this is getting up in the world.” 

He is no brother of mine,” said Leonard. Come, Laddy 
— come, Grif.” 

The soldiers, when the weeping Moses had resumed his 
coat and waistcoat, ran him down the hall in quick and 
soldier-like fashion. As he was being run out, the orchestra 
played half-a-dozen bars of the Rogue’s March, which was, 
under the circumstances, really a kindness, as it confirmed 
the minds of any possible waverers as to the iniquity of the 
culprit. 

All was quiet again; the pewter pots were being col- 
lected by a barman in the gallery ; the noisy middies 
were gone ; the soldiers were sitting down again, and Moses 
received undivided attention as he was escorted to the 
doors. 

Down went the Chairman’s hammer. 

‘‘ Gentlemen ! Sam Trolloper will again oblige.’* 

Twang, fiddle ; blow, horn ; strike up, harp. 

We went away as the orchestra played the opening to the 


356 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


accompaniment, and as the Illustrious Sam began a ballad of 
which we only heard the first two lines : — 

“ As I sat by the side of the bubbling water 
Toasting a herring red for tea.’* 


CHAPTER XL. 


MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WARBECK. 

G rip, greatly marvelling, went his own way, and Leonard, 
seizing my arm, hurried me home. 

The Captain was gone to bed ; we lit the lamp in the little 
parlour, and Leonard tore open the two letters with im- 
patience. 

That from Moses, ill-spelt, ill-conditioned, in a tone half 
bullying, half crawling, asked, as might be expected, for 
money. It was evidently not the first of such letters. It 
referred to his previous communications and interviews, 
appealed to his correspondent’s close relationship, and went 
on to threaten, in case the money was not forthcoming, to 
do something vague, but dreadful, which would bring him 
within the power of the law, in which case, he hinted, he 
should, from his commanding position in the dock, let all 
the world know that he had been driven to perpetrate the 
desperate deed by the obdurate and unrelenting heart of his 
own mother’s sister, who rolled in gold and would give him 
none of it. 

There’s a pretty villain for you,” said Leonard, reading 
the last words with a clenched fist. 

I wish to go Strate,” wrote Moses, in conclusion, “ as I 
have always gone Strate. If I am drove to go kruked there 
shan’t be no one as shan’t know it was Misery and your 
kruelty as done it. I must have a tenner to-morrow or the 
Day after if you’ve got to pawn your best black silk dress. 
Take and pawn it. Isn’t that your Dooty ? You in silk and me 
in rags and tatters. Why it makes a cove sick to think of it. 
There. And specially a cove as is innercent, and one as is only 


MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WARBECK. 357 


got his karakter behind his back to depend upon — which the 
Lord He knows is a good one. So no more for the present 
from your affecksh unate nevew, Moses. P.S. Mind I want 
the money right down. P.S. I know a most respectible 
pawnbroker and will call for the gownd myself. P.S. I am 
thinkin if it would be pleasaut for you to have me at home 
always with you. Aunts and nevews oughter not to be 
sepperated.’' 

There’s a precious villain for you,” repeated Leonard, 
banging the table with his fist. 

The other letter, to which this delightful epistle was 
apparently in reply, was written in expostulation of the 
man’s extravagance and profligate habits. Evidently the 
writer was a lady. She spoke of her own small income : ot 
the poverty in which she had to live in order to meet the 
demands which this fellow was perpetually making upon 
her ; she had reminded him that he had drawn a hundred 
and fifty pounds out of her already ; from which we inferred 
that the claims were comparatively recent ; that she lived in 
daily terror of great demands ; that she implored him to 
endeavour in some honourable way to get his own livelihood ; 
and that his conduct and extravagance were causing her 
daily wretchedness — a letter which ought to have melted 
the heart even of a Moses. One thought, however, of the 
way in which that boy used to walk up all the jam, and 
felt sure that nothing would melt his granite heart. 

Laddy,” cried Leonard. Think ! That fellow may be 
even now on his way to make a final attempt upon this poor 
lady — my mother’s sister — my poor mother’s sister.” 

His eyes filled with tears for a moment and his voice 
choked. 

On the very day,” he went on, that Celia has promised 
to be my wife, I am restored to my own people. I cannot 
wait till to-morrow. Come with me, Laddy, if you will — or 
I will go alone — I cannot rest. I shall go over to Fareham 
now, to-night — if only to protect her from that fellow. Good 
heavens ! And he has got half-an-hour’s start.” 

‘‘He will walk,” I said. “We will go into the town. It 


358 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


is only half- past nine. Get a dog-cart, and drive over. We 
can easily get there before him.” 

‘‘ He had a few shillings,” Leonard reflected. It is not 
likely that he will spend them in driving. And yet he 
knows it is his only chance to see her to-night. If you 
cross the harbour first it is only six miles to walk. Of 
course he will walk. By road it is eleven miles. We can 
do it in an hour and a half. Come, Laddy. Quick ! ” 

It was easy enough to get a dog-cart, and in ten minutes 
we were bowling along the road, Leonard driving something 
like Jehu. 

He did not speak one word all the journey until we saw 
the lights of the little town in the distance. Then he turned 
his head to me and said quietly — 

I wonder what she will be like ? ” 

We clattered over the rough stones of the street, and 
stopped at the inn, where we had the horse taken out. The 
ostler undertook to guide us to Miss Rutherford’s cottage. 

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and most of the lights in the 
town were put out. For economy’s sake the gas in the 
streets was not lit at all during this time of the year. We 
followed our guide down the street and beyond the houses, 
where began that fringe of small villa residences which is 
common to our English country towns, and distinguishes 
them especially from all Continental towns. Stopping in 
front of one of these, our friendly ostler pointed to the 
garden gate. 

^‘That’s Miss Rutherford’s, gentlemen. But you’ll have 
to ring her up if you want to see the lady very particular, 
and to-night, because they’re all gone to bed.” 

It was true. The house was dark, and its occupants 
probably asleep. 

The ostler retraced his steps. We looked at each other 
in dismay. 

I feel rather foolish,” said Leonard. We can’t very well 
knock at the door and wake up the poor lady.” 

Moses will probably have fewer scruples if he arrives 
to-night on his private and very urgent business.” 


MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WARBECK. jjg 

“Yes; that is true. Look here, Laddy, you go back to 
the inn, and get a bed there. I will stay outside, and watch 
here all night till the fellow comes.” 

I would not consent to that. It seemed to me fair that 
we should each do our turn of watching. 

All this time we were standing outside the garden gate. 
AVitliin— one could see everything perfectly in the mid- 
summer twilight — was a trim and neat lawn, set with 
standard roses and dainty flower-beds. Behind, a small 
house with a gable, round whose front there climbed Westeria 
and passion-flower. The air was heavy with the scent of the 
f rmer. A lilac was in full blossom among the shrubs, and 
added its fresh spring-like perfume to the heavy odour of 
the creeper. 

“It is all very peaceful,” whispered Leonard. “Let us 
go inside and sit down.” 

We opened the gate, and stepped in as softly as a pair of 
burglars. On the right was a garden seat, over which 
drooped the branches of a laburnum. There we sat, ex- 
pectant of Moses. 

“ I wonder what she is like,” Leonard said again. “ How 
shall we tell her ? You must tell her, Laddy. And what 
will she tell me ? 

“ It will be something more for Celia,” he went on, “ that 
her husband will have relations and belongings. It is too 
absurd to marry a man without even a cousin to his back. 
I have been ashamed all my life, not so much that I was 
born — as I was — as that I had no belongings at all. I used 
to envy, when I was a boy, the family life that we saw so 
little of — the mothers and sisters, the home-comings and 
the rejoicings — all the things one reads of in novels. We 
had none of these — except at second-hand, through Cis. 
You were better off than I, Laddy, because no one could 
take away your ancestry, though the compassionate Czar 
relieved you of the burden of your wealth. But I had 
nothing. And now — what am I going to have ? 

“She was good, my poor mother. So much Mrs. Jeram 
knows of her. But her mind wandered, and she could not. 


360 


BY CELIA’S ABBOtfS. 


if she wished, have told her who or what she was. She was 
good, of that I am quite certain. But what about my 
father ? ’’ 

I made no reply. Within the sleeping house lay the 
secret. We had to pass the night before we could get at it. 
Perhaps, when it was found, poor Leonard would be no 
happier. 

Twelve o’clock struck from some church tower near at 
hand. I thought of the night but a few weeks ago, when 
Celia and I sat whispering through the twilight hours in the 
stern of the boat. Well, he had come, of whom we talked 
that night ; he was with us ; he had told Celia that he loved 
her. It was quite certain what answer she would give her 
elderly suitor. Celia’s father, besides, had got the key of the 
safe, the thing by which he declared he would rid himself 
at once of his persecutor. I had done that with Forty- 
four. Oh ! guilty pair. Was little Forty-four lying sleep- 
less and remorseful on a conscience-stricken pillow ? I, 
for my own part, felt small and rather mean thinking over 
what I had done — and how I had done it — but perhaps 
the small ” feeling was due rather to the knowledge how 
pitiably small we should look if we were found out. I 
believe that repentance generally does mean fear of being 
found out, when it does not mean the keener pang of intense 
disgust at having been actually exposed, in which case we 
call it Remorse. Borrowing that key for those few minutes, 
and setting the door of the safe open, was, as Mr. John 
Pontifex would have said, shaking his head and forefinger, 
a Wrong Thing, a thing to lament, as awful an event as his 
own profane language over the tough goose when in the full 
vigour and animal passion of his youth. And yet — and yet 
— one could not but chuckle over the thought of Herr 
Pauiner’s astonishment when he found the safe open and 
his victim free. 

There was too much to think about as we sat beneath the 
laburnum in that quiet garden. Behind the forms of Celia 
and Leonard, behind the orange blossoms and flowers, rose 
a gaunt and weird figure, with a look of hungry longing in 


MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WARBECK. 361 

its eyes, which were yet like the eyes of Wassielewski. It 
reached out long arms and great bony hands dripping with 
blood to seize me. And a mocking voice cried, Revenge 
tliy father ! revenge thy father ! ” My brain reeled as thin 
shadows of things, real and unreal, flitted across my closed 
eyes. I awoke with a start. 

One o'clock. 

And just then we heard in the distance the crunch of slow 
steps over the gravel of the road. 

‘‘ Moses,” Leonard whispered, springing into attention. 

The steps came nearer; they were a hundred yards off; 
they were on the other side of the hedge ; they stopped at 
the garden wall. 

Moses,” whispered Leonard again. 

It was Moses. And Moses in very bad temper. He 
swore aloud at the garden-gate because he could not at flrst 
find the handle. Then he swore aloud in general terms, 
then he swore at the people of the house because he would 
have to ring them up, and then he came in banging the 
door after him, and tramped heavily upon the grass — the 
brute — crunching straight through the flower-bed, setting 
his great heavy feet as if by deliberate choice on the delicate 
flowers. We were invisible beneath the laburnum tree. 

Leonard rose noiselessly, and stepped after him. 

See, another step, and he will be at the door, ringing the 
bell, terrifying out of their wits the women sleeping within. 
Already, as his scowling face shows in the twilight, he has 
formulated his requisition in his own mind, and is going to 
back it with threats of violence. The demands will never 
be made. The threats will never be uttered. Leonard's 
hand falls upon his shoulder, and Moses, turning with a 
start and a cry, finds himself face to face again with his old 
enemy. 

“ Come out of this garden,” said Leonard. Dare to say 
one word above your breath, and ” 

Moses trembled, but obeyed. It was like Neptune’s 
“ Quos ego ” 

Leonard dragged him, unresisting, into the road, and led 


362 BY CELIACS ABBOtiS. 

him along the silent way, beyond earshot of the house, saying 
nothing. 

What shall we do to him ? ” he asked me. 

Oh ! Mr. Ladislas,’' whimpered Moses, don’t let him 
murder me. You’re witness that I never done nothing to 
him. Always hard on a poor innocent cove, he was, when we 
were all boys together.” 

‘‘You came out to-night,” said Leonard, “ thinking you 
were going to find an unprotected woman asleep in the dead 
of the night; you were persuading yourself that you would 
frighten her into giving you more money, knowing that it 
was your last chance.” 

“No, sir,” whined Moses abjectly. “No, Captain Copleston, 
sir. Not that. What I said to myself, as I came along, was 
this : ‘ Moses,’ I says, says I, ‘ the plant’s found out. All is 
up. That’s where it is.’ So I says to myself — if you don’t 
mind, sir, takin’ your fingers from off o’ my coat-collar, 
which they have a throttlesome feel” — Leonard released 
him. “Thank you, sir. I says to myself, then, ‘I’ll up 
and go to Miss Rutherford — which she is a generous-’earted 
lady, and tell her — tell her — Hall.’ That’s wot I meant 
to do, Cap’en Copleston, sir. Hall I was a-goin’ to tell 
her.” 

“ A likely story, indeed,” said Leonard. 

“Very likely, sir,” Moses echoed. “Yes, and I should 
have said ” 

“ Now — you — drunken blackguard and liar,” said Leonard, 
“ You have come hear to make a final attempt. You have 
failed. Henceforth you will be watched. I give you fair 
warning that if you are ever seen by me about this place, or 
in any otlier place, I will instantly give you into custody on 
a charge of obtaining money on false pretences. You under- 
stand so much. Then go — get out of my sight.” 

He accompanied his words with a gesture so threatening 
that our prisoner instantly set off running as hard as he could 
down the road. If fear ever lent wings to a fugitive, those 
wings were produced for Moses on this occasion. 

“ I was in such a rage,” said Leonard, as the steps died 


MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WARbECK. 363 

away in the distance, such a boiling rage with the creature 
that I think I should have killed him had I not let him 
go. It is too bad, because he richly deserved the best cow- 
hiding one could give him. Odd ! All the old feeling 
came back upon me, too. I used to hate him in the old 
days when we fought night and morning. And I hate him 
now.” 

‘‘What is to be done next?” I asked. “Are we to go 
back to the friendly laburnum ? There is no fear about 
Moses any more.” 

“ No ; I don’t care what we do. I am restless and excited. 
I cannot sleep. Perhaps she gets up early. Let us go for a 
walk.” 

Half-past one in the morning was rather late for an even- 
ing walk, but I complied, and we went along the deserted 
road. Presently I began to feel tired, and was fain to rest 
in the hedge under a tree. And there I fell fast asleep. 
When I woke it was broad daylight. Leonard was walking 
backwards and forwards along the road. What a handsome 
man he was as he came swiftly towards me, bathed in the 
early sunshine which played in his curly hair, and lay in his 
eyes ! 

“ Awake already, Laddy ? ” he cried. “ It is only four 
o’clock. I am less sleepy than ever. And there are two long 
hours to wait. She can’t get up before six. Perhaps she 
will not be up before nine.” 

I confess that those two hours were long ones. Leonard’s 
restless excitement increased. I made him walk. I made 
him bathe. I tried to make him talk, and yet the minutes 
crawled. At last, however, it was half-past six, and we re- 
traced our steps to the cottage. 


3^4 


BY CELIA’S ALBOUR. 


OHAPTEE XLI. 

MISS RUTHERFORD. 

M ISS EUTHEEPOED was already up. At least a lady 
about five- aud- forty, small, fragile, and dainty, with 
delicate features and an air of perfect ladyhood ; she wore a 
morning dress of muslin, with garden gloves and a straw hat. 
And she was gazing with dismay at the footprints — that 
brute Moses ! — on her fiower-beds. 

We looked at her for a few moments, and then Leonard 
opened the garden-gate, and we presented ourselves. 

At least I presented both of us. 

^‘Miss Eutherford,’'— she looked surprised. ‘^lam speak- 
ing to Miss Eutherford, am I not ? ” 

‘‘Yes. I am Miss Eutherford.” 

“ W^e have something to tell you of importance. Will you 
take us into your house ? ” 

She looked from one to the other. 

“ It is very early,” she said. “ My servants are not down 
yet — but come — you appear to be gentlemen.” 

She led the way to a little drawing-room, which was a 
mere bower of daintiness, the pleasant and pretty room of a 
refined and cultivated lady, with books and pictures, and all 
sorts of pretty things — fancy the hulking Moses in such an 
apartment! — and offered us chairs. There was nothing in 
the room which pointed to the presence of the sterner and 
heavier sex. Even the chairs seemed only calculated for 
ladies of her own slender dimensions. Leonards creaked 
ominously when he sat down. 

“ Let me go back twenty-three years,” I began. “ But 
first I must tell you that my name is Ladislas Pulaski — here 
is my card — and that we do not come here from any idle 
motives. This gentleman — but you will see presently who 
he is.” 

“ Three-and-twenty years ago ? ” Miss Eutherford began 
to tremble. “ That was when I lost my sister — and my 
nephew was born. You come about him, I am sure. He 


MISS RUTaERFOBB. 


3^5 

has done something terrible at last, that boy, I am afraid. 
Gentlemen, remember under what bad influences my nephew’s 
early life was spent. If you have to accuse him of anything 
wrong — remember that.” 

Pray do not be alarmed,” I went on. Your nephew’s 
early influences were not so bad as you think, and you will 
very likely see reason to be proud of him.” 

She shook her head as if that was a thing quite beyond 
the reach of hope. 

Leonard was looking at her with curious eyes that grew 
softer as they rested on this gentlewoman’s sweet face. 

Twenty-three years ago, your sister died. Would it pain 
you too much, Miss Rutherford, if you would tell us some- 
thing about her ? ” 

‘‘The pain is in the recollection, rather than the telling,” 
she replied. “ My poor sister married an officer.” 

“ His name was Leonard Oopleston,” I said. 

“Yes — you knew him, perhaps? She was only eighteen 
— three years younger than myself — and she knew nothing 
of the world — how should she, living as she had done all her 
short life in our quiet country vicarage ? She thought the 
man she married was as good as he was handsome. She 
admired him for his bravery, for the stories he could tell, for 
the skill with which he rode, shot, and did everything, and 
for the winning way he had. My father liked him for his 
manly character, and because he was clever, and had read as 
well as travelled and fought. And I believe I liked him as 
much as my father did. There was never any opposition 
made, and my poor dear was married to him in our own church, 
and went away with him on her eighteenth birthday.” 

She paused for a moment. 

“ He was not a good man,” she went on ; “he was a very, 
very bad man. I hope God has forgiven him all the trouble 
and misery he brought upon us, but I find it very hard to 
forgive. My sister’s letters were happy and bright at first ; 
gradually — I thought it was my own fancy — they seemed to 
lose the old joyous ring ; and then they grew quite sad. In 
those days we did not travel about as we can now, and all 


BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. 


.366 

we could do was to wait at home and hope. Six months 
after her marriage she came back to us. Oh ! my poor dear, 
so changed, so altered. She who had been the happiest of 
girls and the blithest of creatures was wan and pale, with a 
scared and frightened look ” — Leonard rose, and went to the 
window, where he remained, half hidden by the curtain — “such 
a look as an animal might have who had been ill-treated. 
She came unexpectedly and suddenly, without any letter or 
warning — on a cold and snowy December afternoon : she 
burst into passionate weeping when she fell upon my neck ; 
and she would never tell me why she left her husband. Nor 
would she tell my father. 

“He began to write to her. She grew faint and sick 
when the first letter came ; she even refused at first to read 
it ; but she yielded, and he kept on writing ; and one day, 
she told me that she had forgiven her husband, and was 
going back to him. 

“ She went. She went away from us with sad forebodings, 
I knew ; she wrote one or two letters to us ; and then — then 
we heard no more.’’ 

“ Heard no more ? ” 

“No; we heard nothing more of her from that day. My 
father made inquiries, and learned that Captain Copleston 
had left the army, sold out, and was gone away from the 
country— no one knew whither. His own family, we learned 
for the first time, had entirely given him up as irreclaimable, 
and could tell us no more. We heard nothing further, and 
could only conjecture that the ship in which they sailed had 
gone down with all on board. But why did she not write 
to tell us that she was going? 

“We waited and waited, hoping against hope. And then 
we resigned ourselves to the conviction that she was dead. 
The years passed on ; my father died, full of years, and I was 
left alone in the world. And then, one day last year, a letter 
came to me from America. It was a letter dictated by my 
sister’s husband on his deathbed ” 

“ He is dead then ? Thank God ! ” Was that the voice 
of Leonard, so hoarse, so thick with trouble ? 


MISS KUTHERFORD. 


367 


‘‘ He implored my forgiveness, and that of his wife if she 
still lived. He confessed that he had let her go away — driven 
her away by his conduct, he said — when she was actually ex- 
pecting to be confined, and that in order to begin life again 
without any ties he had emigrated. The letter was unfinished, 
because Death took him while he was still dictating it. Yet 
it brought me the comfort of knowing that he had re- 
pented.” 

And then I asked, because she stopped. 

Then I began again to think of my poor sister, and I 
advertised in our two papers, asking if any one could give 
me tidings of her. For a long time I received no reply, but 
an answer came at last ; it was from my nephew, that unhappy 
boy, who seems to have inherited all his father s vices and 
none of his graces.” 

Poor Leonard ! What a heritage ! 

“ It was from him that I learned how his mother — poor 
thing, poor thing ! — died in giving birth to him : he told me 
that he had been brought up in a rough way, among soldiers 
and sailors ; that he knew nothing about any of his relations, 
that, as his letter would show me, he had little education, 
that he was a plumber and joiner by trade ; and that by my 
help, if I would help him, he hoped to do well. In answer 
to his letter I made an appointment, and came down to meet 
him. I can hardly tell you what a disappointment it was to 
find my poor dear sister s son so rough and coarse. However, 
it was my duty to do what I could, and I moved down here 
in order to be near him, and help him to the best purpose.” 

She stopped and wiped away a tear. 

‘‘ I have not been able to help him much as yet,” she went 
on. ‘‘ He is, indeed, the great trouble of my life. He has 
deceived me in everything ; I find that he has no trade, or, 
at least, that he will not work at it ; he said he had a wife 
and young family, and I have found that he is unmarried; 
he said he was a total abstainer — and — oh ! dear me, he has 
been frequently here in a dreadful state of intoxication ; he 
said he was a church-goer and a communicant. — But these 
things cannot interest you.” 


368 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUK. 


She said this a little wistfully, as if she hoped they might. 

‘‘ They do interest us very much,’’ I said. 

After all, he is my nephew,” as if she could say much 
more, but refrained from the respect due to kinship. 

You have been deceived,” I told her. “ You have been 
very grossly deceived.” 

I have,” she said. But I must bear with it.” 

“ You have been deceived, madam, in a much more im- 
portant way than you think. Listen to a little story that I 
have to tell you. 

‘‘ There were once four boys living together in the house he 
showed you, all under the charge of an excellent and charit- 
able woman named Mrs. Jeram, to whom we shall take you. 
One of these boys, the best of them all, was your nephew.” 

‘^The best of them all!” she repeated bitterly. Then 
what were the others like ? ” 

One of them, to whom I can also take you, was named 
James Hex. He is now a boatswain in the Eoyal Navy, a 
very good boatswain, too, I believe, and a credit to the service. 
Another was — myself.” 

‘‘You?” 

“ I, Miss Eutherford. I was placed there by my country- 
men, the Poles, with this Mrs. Jeram, and maintained by 
them out of their poverty. When one of these boys, your 
nephew, was eight or nine, and I a year or two younger, we 
were taken away from the good woman with whom we lived 
by a gentleman whom you shall very soon know. He adopted 
us, and had us properly educated.” 

“ Properly educated ? But my nephew can hardly 
write.” 

“Your nephew writes as well as any other gentleman 
in England.” 

“ Gentleman in England ? ” 

“ My dear lady, the man who calls himself Moses Copleston 
is not your nephew at all. He was the fourth of those boys of 
whom I told you. He is the one among them who has turned 
out badly. He knew, no doubt from Mrs. Jeram, all about 
your nephew’s birth. What be told you, so far, was true. 


MISS KUTHERFOKD. 369 

All the rest was pure invention. Did you ever, for instance, 
see any resemblance in him to your late sister ? ’’ 

“ To Lucy ? Most certainly not.’’ 

To his father ? ” 

‘‘ Not in face. But he has his father s vices.” 

So have, unfortunately, a good many men.” 

But I cannot understand. He is not my nephew at all? 
Not my nephew ? Can any man dare to be so wicked ? ” 

It really was, as we reflected afterwards, a claim of great 
daring, quite worthy to be admitted among those of historical 
pretenders. Moses was another Perkin Warbeck. 

‘^Most certainly not your nephew. He is an impudent 
pretender. I do not ask you to accept my word only. I 
will give you proof that will satisfy any lawyer, if you 
please. He must have seen your advertisement, and know- 
ing that the real nephew was gone away, devised the ex- 
cellent scheme of lies and robbery of which you have been 
the victim. Last night we wrung the truth from him ; 
last night he came here, to this house, intending to make 
a last attempt at extortion, but we were here before him. 
Your house was guarded for you all night — by your real 
nephew.'’ 

She was trembling violently. She had forgotten the pre- 
sence of Leonard, who stood in the window, silent. 

My nephew ? My nephew ? But where is he ? And 
oh ! is he like that other ? Is there more shame and 
wickedness ? ” 

^‘No! No shame at all. Only pride and joy. He is 
here. Miss Eutherford. See! This is Leonard Copleston, 
your sister s son.” 

Leonard stepped before her. 

‘‘ I am, indeed,” he said. I am your sister s son.” 

What was it, in his voice, in his manner, in his attitude, 
that carried my thoughts backward with a rush to the day 
when he stood amid the snow in the old churchyard, and 
cried aloud to the spirit of his dead mother lying in the 
pauper’s corner ? 

And was she like her dead sister, this delicate and fragile 


370 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


lady who must once have been beautiful, and who now stood 
with hands tightly clasped, gazing with trembling wonder 
on the gallant young fellow before her ? 

My nephew ? ” she cried. Leonard — it was your 
father’s name — you have his hair and his eyes, but you have 
your mother s voice. Leonard, shall you love me ? ” 

He took her two hands in his, and drew her towards him 
like a lover. 

I thought they would be best left alone, and disappeared. 

After meditation for a space among the flowers I went 
back again. They were still standing by the table, her 
hands in his. He held a miniature — I guessed of whom — 
and was looking on it with tearful eyes. 

“ Leonard,” I said, I shall take the dog-cart into town, 
and leave you with your aunt to tell your own story. Bring 
her with you this very afternoon, and introduce her to the 
Captain. Miss Eutherford, you are pleased with this new 
nephew of yours ? ” 

“Pleased?” she cried with a sob of happiness. “Pleased?” 

“ He is an improvement upon the old one. Moses, indeed ! 
As if you could have a nephew named Moses, with a drink- 
sodden face and a passion for pipes and beer ! ” 

She laughed. The situation had all the elements of tears, 
and I wanted to stave them off. 

“ And then there is Celia,” I added. 

“ Celia ? Who is Celia ? ” she asked, with a little appre- 
hension in her voice. “Are you married, my nephew, 
Leonard?” 

“ No,” he said. “ But I am in love.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ And you will like her. Aunt.” 

They were strange to each other, and Leonard handled 
the title of relationship with awkwardness at flrst. It was 
actually the very flrst of those titles — there are a good many 
of them when you come to think of them — that he had ever 
been able to use. 

“Miss Rutherford must be prepared to fall in love with her,” 
T said, to reassure her ; “ everybody is in love with Celia.” 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


371 


Then I left them, and went back to the tavern, where I 
had breakfast — nothing gives a man such an appetite as 
these domestic emotions — and drove back to town. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


EONARD’S promotion to family connections was a thing 



J-J so startling that it almost drove away from my mind 
tlie recollection of the crisis through which all our fortunes 
were to pass that very day — Celia’s refusal of Herr Raumer 
and my Polish deputation. In the breathless rush of those 
two days, in which were concentrated the destinies of three 
lives at least, one had to think of one thing at a time. 
Portunatel}^, I could give the morning to Celia. She was 
agitated, but not on her own account. Her father, she said, 
had given her his unqualified approval of what she was 
going to do. 

He has behaved,” she said, “in the kindest way possible, 
lie knows all about — about Leonard.” 

“ I told him.” 

“And he says he is very glad. I am to meet Herr 
Raumer at twelve in his office and give him my answer. 
But there is something behind all this which troubles me. 
Why is my father so sad ? ” 

“ It is nothing at all, I believe. He fancies that the 
German can injure his reputation in some way. Be of good 
heart, Cis. All will go right now.” 

And then I fell to telling her how Leonard had at last 
come into the patrimony of a family, and was no longer a 
foundling. This diverted her thoughts, and carried us on 
until twelve o’clock, when I went to the family conference 
which was called at that hour in Mr. Tyrrell’s office. Celia 
remained in her own room until she was wanted. 

It was a complete assemblage, gathered together to hear 
Celia’s answer to her suitor. Nothing but the gravity of 
the situation warranted this publicity, so to speak, of her 


372 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


decision. It was an acknowledgment, on the part of her 
father, that more was at stake than the mere refusal of a 
girl to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather. Mr. 
Pontifex was there also with his wife. He wore the garb 
which he assumed on occasions of ceremony. It consisted 
simply of a dress-coat, with perhaps an additional fold to 
the very large white neckcloth which he wore about his long 
neck. That dress-coat, which he certainly never associated 
especially with the evening, bore an air of battle about it, 
although the wearer's face was much meeker than usual, and 
his upper lip longer, and therefore sadder to look at. They 
sat each bolt upright in two chairs side by side against the 
wall. The lady was present under protest. As I heard 
afterwards, she consented to come on the express under- 
standing that her carriage should be kept waiting, so that 
at any moment, if she were offended, she might go; also, 
that the maintenance of her will on its present terms 
depended on Celia’s behaviour. Her husband, the principal 
sufferer in their family disturbances, had, I suppose, received 
orders to be on distant terms with everybody, as if we were 
all on our trial. I gathered this from the way in which he 
acknowledged my presence, with that sort of dignified move- 
ment of the head which the clergy reserve for pew-openers, 
sextons, national schoolmasters, and the like. He was 
present at the meeting, perhaps to represent the virtue of 
Christian resignation, while his wife preferred that Christian 
wrath the exhibition of which is not a sin. 

Mrs. Tyrrell sat on the other side of the room in a state 
of profound bewilderment. Things were beyond her com- 
prehension. But she seemed to feel my arrival as a kind of 
relief, and immediately proposed, as a measure of conciliation, 
wine and cake. No one took any notice of the offer except 
Mr. Pontifex, who sighed and shook his head as if he should 
have liked some under happier circumstances. 

It was very evident that Aunt Jane thought she had been 
invited to witness the acceptance of the enemy’s offer. There 
was in the carriage of her head, the setting of her lips, the 
rustle of her silks, the horizontality of her curls, a wrathful 


A FAMILY COUNCIL* 


373 


and combative look. And if her eyes seemed to wander, as 
they sometimes did, into space, it was, one instinctively felt, 
only the absorption of her spirit in the effort to find fitting 
words to express her indignation when the time should 
arrive. 

I looked at the safe. Yes, the door was slightly open ; I 
had left it wide open. There could be no doubt that Mr. 
Tyrrell had found it open. Presumably, therefore, he had 
— what had he done ? Abstracted papers ? The thought 
was an ugly one ; and yet, for what reason had I committed 
an ugly act and borrowed the key ? Abstracted papers ; 
made things safe; robbed his enemy of his weapons; that 
did not ring musically — as every musician knows, evil is 
discord. And yet Mr. Tyrrell did not look like — one shrinks 
from calling things by their right names. He bore, on the 
other hand, a quiet look of dignity which contrasted strangely 
with the restless nervousness of the last few weeks. 

With him was the Captain, standing with his back to 
the fireplace, the favourite British position, summer or 
winter. 

All these observations were made in a moment, for, as if 
he had been waiting for me, Mr. Tyrrell began to address us, 
fidgeting his fingers among the papers on the table. 

I have asked you to come here this morning,’’ he said. 

I have asked you. Aunt Jane and Mr. Pontifex, as Celia s 
nearest relations, and you, Captain, as an old friend, and 
you, Ladislas, as her closest friend, to witness her own decision 
in a matter which concerns her own happiness, whatever we 
may have thought or said about it — and which must be left 
entirely to herself. 

Mrs. Pontifex snorted. 

‘‘ I keep my own opinion, George Tyrrell,” she said, and 
I mean to keep it.” 

You all know that this offer took us entirely by surprise 
— none more so than myself — and especially for the reason 
that its rejection by Celia will most likely result in the 
enmity of a man who has for many years been my friend 
and my client.” 


374 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


Here Mrs. Pontifex murmured in an undertone, so that 
her husband and I were the only persons who heard it — 
Fudge and flapdoodle.” 

“ There is nothing against Herr Eaumer. He has lived 
among us an irreproachable life, so far as we know.” 

‘‘ Old enough to be her grandfather ; a foreigner ; and, for 
all you know, a Roman Catholic.” 

John Pontifex lifted his head at the last word, and made a 
remark — 

That we should innocently connive at the marriage of an 
unfortunate Papist would be — ahem — in fact — a shocking 
state of things ! ” 

“ Of course he is not a Catholic,” said Mr. Tyrrell impa- 
tiently. ‘‘And as for his age, many girls marry elderly men 
and are perfectly happy. It so happens that eight or ten 
years ago I laid myself under an obligation— a very great 
obligation — to Herr Eaumer. I cannot allow myself to for- 
get the debt I owe him. At the time when I expressed my 
gratitude and asked in what way I could best show it, he 
laughed, and said that I could give him — my little daughter. 
I acceded, laughing, and thought no more about the matter 
until he himself reminded me of it. It seems that he had 
not forgotten it. At the same time, he offered to take his 
chance ; if I would give him such good offices as I could, in 
the way of paternal influence; if I would give him oppor- 
tunities of frequently seeing my daughter; if Mrs. Tyrrell 
could also be got to approve ” 

“ Nothing could be more regular, I must say,” sighed Mrs. 
Tyrrell, “ or more becoming.” 

Mrs. Pontifex pulled out her pocket-handkerchief and 
coughed. 

I distinctly heard the last syllables, drowned by the 
kerchief — “ doodle.” 

Her husband, terrified beyond measure by this repetition 
of his wife’s very strongest expression, shook his head slowly^ 
and ejaculated. Heaven knows why, “ Alas ! ” 

“ I say,” Mr. Tyrrell went on mildly, disregarding these 
interruptions, “ that he very properly left the decision to 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


375 


Celia herself. At first I considered the situation favourably 
for my old friend. Here was an establishment, a certainty, 
an assured position. I brought pressure — not cruel or un- 
kind pressure — but still a certain amount of pressure — to 
bear upon Celia in his behalf. I am sorry now that I did 
exercise that influence, because it has offended some here, 
and because I find it has made my daughter unhappy, and 
that’’ — his voice broke down a little — ‘4s a thing I cannot 
bear to think of 

“Yesterday, however,” he went on, after a pause, during 
which Mrs. Pontifex did not say, “ Fudge and flapdoodle,” 
nor did her husband say “ Alas ! ” but looked straight before 
him — “Yesterday I saw Herr Raumer again; he came to 
tell me that he had waited two months, that Celia was now 
exposed to the attention of a far younger and more attractive 
man in the shape of Leonard Copleston, and that he would 
ask Celia himself for her decision. I have this morning 
talked with her upon the subject. I have told her that I 
withdraw altogether every word that I said before in favour 
of his pretensions ; I have asked her to be guided in the 
matter entirely by her own heart. And I invited you here, 
with her consent, in order that, before you all, she might tell 
Herr Raumer what answer she has decided to give.” 

“So far, George Tyrrell,” said Mrs. Pontifex, “you have 
acted worthily, and like yourself” 

Then the Captain lifted up his voice. 

“ Our friend, George Tyrrell,” he began, “ told me yester- 
day a thing which has been hitherto known only to himself 
and to this Mr. — Herr Raumer. It is a matter which may, 
or may not, do harm if generally known. And it appears 
that yesterday, probably in the heat of jealousy or disappoint- 
ment — because we all know Celia Tyrrell’s sentiments on the 
matter — this gentleman held out a kind of threat against 
Celia’s father of spreading the business abroad. We can 
afford to laugh at such menaces ; we stick to our guns, and 
we let the enemy blaze away. He cannot do us any real 
barm.” 

“ Menaces ? Threats ? cried Aunt Jane, springing to her 


376 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


feet, and shaking her skirts so that they ^‘went off” in 
rustlings like a whole box of lucifer matches at once. 
“ Threats against yoii^ George Tyrrell ? Against a member 
of my family? Threats? Til let him know, if he begins 
that kind of thing. He shall see that I can be resolute on 
occasion, meek though I may be habitually and on Christian 
principle.” 

“Certainly, my dear,” said John Pontifex sadly. “You 
can be resolute on proper occasion.” 

George Tyrrell smiled— rather a wan smile. 

“It is never pleasant to have one’s peace and ease dis- 
turbed by threats and misrepresentations.” 

“ We’ve got you in convoy,” said the Captain heartily ; 
“ and will see you safe into port. There’s eight bells. Now, 
then.” 

I was still thinking about the open safe. Could a man 
who had spoken as Tyrrell spoke, with so much genuine 
feeling, so much dignity, actually have in his pockets 
abstracted papers ? Then why the undertone of melancholy ? 
If he had nothing to fear, why did he speak or allow the 
Captain to speak of possible attacks ? In any case, I was the 
real culprit, the cause and origin of the crime. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER, 


E had not long to wait. Almost as the last clock 



V V finished its last stroke of noon we heard outside the 
firm and heavy step of Celia’s suitor, and I am ready to con- 
fess that the heart of one guilty person in the room — if there 
were more than one — began to beat the faster. Mr. Tyrrell 
turned pale, I thought, and Mrs. Pontifex stiffened her hack 
against the chair, and looked her most resolute. I do not 
know why, but John Pontifex began to tremble at the knees, 
the most sensitive part apparently of his organisation. 

Herr Raumer stood before us in some surprise. 

“ I did not expect,” he said, “ to find a conseil de famille” 


CELIA GIVES HEE AKSWEft. 


ill 


Then, drawing from the solemn aspect of Mrs. Pontifex, the 
dejection depicted in Mrs. Tyrrell’s face, and the terror of 
John Pontifex, a conclusion that the meeting was not 
favourable to his cause, he assumed an expression which 
meant fighting. 

I hope that Mrs. Pontifex is quite well,’’ he said blandly, 
^‘and the Rev. Mr. Pontifex, whom I have not heard for 
several Sundays.” 

Then he took a chair, and sat at the table. 

‘^Now,” he said to Mr. Tyrrell, with a certain brutality, 
“ let us get to business at once.” 

Beside him was the Captain, leaning his hand on his stick, 
and looking as if he were ready with the loaded artillery of 
a hundred-gun man-o’-war. 

Mr. Tyrrell rang the bell. 

‘^Ask Miss Celia to be good enough to step down,” he 
said. Whatever was before him he looked ready to face. 

The German, as if master of the situation, sat easily and 
quietly. He looked as if he were a mere spectator, and the 
business was one which concerned him not at all. And yet 
he must have known, from the fact of the family gathering, 
that his chances were small indeed. But he said nothing, 
only removed his blue spectacles, and gently stroked his 
heavy moustache with the palm of his left hand. He was 
dressed, I remember, in a white waistcoat, only the upper 
part being visible above his tightly-buttoned frock-coat. He 
wore a flower in one button-hole, which was then not so 
common as it is now, and a tiny piece of red ribbon in 
another. Also he wore lavender kid gloves and patent- 
leather boots. In fact, he was dressed for the occasion. 
With his heavy face, his large and massive head, his full 
moustache, and his upright carriage, he looked far younger 
in spite of his white hair, than the man who sat expectant 
before him. Celia entered in her quiet, unobtrusive way, 
kissed her great-aunt, and, refusing a chair which Herr 
Eaumer offered, took mine, which was next Aunt Jane. 

Now, Celia,” said that lady, we are all here, waiting 
for your decision, and as that may possibly — mind, child. 


378 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


I do not expect it — but it may possibly be such as John 
Pontifex and I cannot approve, the sooner we get it the 
better.” 

‘^One moment,” said Herr Eaumer, rising, and pushing 
back his chair. I am also deeply concerned in Miss 
Tyrrell’s answer. May I speak first ? ” 

He considered a moment, and then went on. 

I am now a man advanced in years. I have for twelve 
years and more watched the growth of a child so carefully 
that I have at last, perhaps prematurely, come to look upon 
that child as, in a sense, my own. You would laugh, Mrs. 
Pontifex, if I were to say that I have fallen in love with 
that child.” 

Fudge and flapdoodle ! ” said the lady for a third time, 
so that her husband’s teeth began to chatter. 

Quite so. But it is the truth. I hope— -I still venture 
to hope — that my declining years may be cheered by the 
care of a young lady, who, in becoming my wife, would not 
cease to be my much-loved and cherished daughter.” 

Man,” said Aunt Jane, ‘‘ talk Christian sense, not 
heathen rubbish. You can’t marry your daughter nor your 
granddaughter either. Not even in Germany, far less in 
this Protestant and Evangelical country.” 

‘‘ I went to my old friend, George Tyrrell,” Herr Eaumer 
proceeded, regardless of the interruption, I put the case 
before him. You know the rest. Celia, I have not pressed 
my attentions upon you. I have said no word of love to you. 
I know that it might be ridiculous in me to say much of 
what I feel in this respect. You know me well enough to 
trust me, 1 think. It was enough for me that you should 
know what I hoped, and it was right that you should take 
time to reflect. Will you be my wife ? ” 

She clasped my hand, and held it tight. And she looked 
at her father with a little fear and doubt, while she 
answered — 

I cannot, Herr Eaumer.” 

His face clouded over. 

‘‘ Think,” he pleaded. I have watched over you, looking 


CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER. 


379 


for this moment, for ten years. You shall have all that a 
woman can ask for. I can give yon position — a far higher 
position than you dream of. You shall be rich, you shall be 
a guest of Courts, you shall lead and command — what can a 
woman want that I cannot give you ? ” 

She shook her head. 

I am very sorry ; you have been very kind to me 
always.” 

His attentions have been most marked,” said her mother. 

Clara,” said Aunt Jane sharply, “ hold your tongue ! ” 

‘‘ You have been so kind to me always that I venture to 
ask one more kindness of you. It is that you forget this 
passage of your life altogether, and — and — do not suffer my 
refusal to alter the friendly relations between my father and 
yourself.” 

“ Is this scene preconcerted ? ” he turned to Mr. Tyrrell. 
“ Am I invited here to make one in a dramatic representa- 
tion? Are these excellent friends gathered together to 
laugh at the refusal of my offer ? ” 

“No — no,” cried Celia. “There is no dramatic repre- 
sentation. There is no preconcerted scene. Come, Aunt 
Jane, come, mamma; let us go; we have nothing more to 
do here. Herr Raumer” — she held out her hand — “will 
you forgive me ? I — I alone am to blame — if any one is to 
blame — in this matter. I ought to have told you three 
weeks ago that it was impossible. I hoped that you would 
see for yourself that it was impossible. I thought that you 
would of your own accord withdraw your offer. Will you 
forgive me ? ” 

He did not take the proffered hand. 

“ You refuse my hand,” he said, “ and you ask me to take 
yours! Pardon me, Miss Tyrrell. We do not fight with 
ladies. I have now to do with your father.” 

Mrs. Pontifex — I think I have said that she was not a 
tall woman, being perhaps about five feet two — stepped to 
the table, and rapped it smartly with her knuckles. 

“You have to do with Jane Pontifex,” she said, “as well 
as with George Tyrrell. Take care, John Pontifex ! ” 


SSo 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


My dear ! ” 

Remain here. Watch the proceedings, and report them 
to me, exactly. Now, Clara and Celia, go on upstairs. You 
are under my protection now, my dear. And as for you, 
sir” — she shook her finger impressively at Herr Raumer — 

if it were not for your age and infirmities, I would take 
you by the collar and give you as good a shaking as you ever 
had. John Pontifex ! ” 

My — my — my — dear ? ” 

‘‘I charge you — not to shake him by the collar.” 

No, my dear, I will not,” he promised firmly. 

In moments of indignation,” Aunt Jane explained to her 
niece, John Pontifex is like a lion.” 

She stood at the door to see Celia safely out of her suitor s 
clutches, and then followed, closing it with a slam. 

John Pontifex, the Lion-hearted, resumed his seat against 
the wall, and sat bolt upright with more meekness than 
might have been expected of one so disposed to Christian 
wrath. 

Now, sir,” said Herr Raumer to Mr. Tyrrell, the she- 
dragon is gone, and we can talk 

“ I have promised, Johnny,” whispered Mr. Pontifex to 
me, “ not to shake him. By the she-dragon, I presume, he 
— actually — means — Mrs. Pontifex. This wickedness is, 
Indeed, lamentable ! ” 

“ and we can talk. Is this bravado, or is it defiance? ” 

‘‘It is neither,” said the Captain. “I know all the parti- 
culars of this business. It means that we are doing our duty, 
and are prepared for the consequences.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Herr Raumer. “ It is very noble of you to 
recommend this line of action, seeing that the consequences 
will not fall upon your head. You are one of the people 
who go about enjoining everybody, like Nelson, to do his 
duty because England expects it. England is a great and 
fortunate country/' 

“You may sneer, sir,” said the Captain with dignity. 
“ I have told you what we propose to do.” 

“ Are you aware what the consequences may be if I act 


CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER. 381 

upon certain information contained in that safe, that you so 
boldly recommend the path of duty ? ” 

believe the consequences may be unpleasant. But 
they will be made quite as unpleasant to yourself; they 
cannot produce the important effects you anticipate ; and — 
in any case — we shall abide the consequences.” 

‘‘I give you another chance, Tyrrell. Let the girl give 
me a favourable answer in a week — a fortnight — even a month. 
Send young Oopleston away — use your paternal pressure, 
and all may yet be well.” 

He had quite put off the bland politeness of his manner 
with Celia, and stood before us angry, flushed and revenge- 
ful. It was pretty clear that he would get what revenge he 
could, and I began to hope that, after all, Mr. Tyrrell had 
possessed himself of those papers. 

Come, Tyrrell,” he said, you know what will follow. 
Think of your own interests. I have never yet been beaten, 
and I never will. Those who stand in my path are trampled 
on without mercy.” 

‘‘No,” said the Worshipful the Mayor, “I will not be 
under any man’s power. Do what you like, say what you 
like; and as you please. I would rather see Celia dead 
than married to you.” 

“Then you declare war?” He took a little key — ah! 
how well I remembered that instrument of temptation — from 
his waistcoat-pocket. “ You declare war ? This is refresh- 
ing. Some people say that nothing will induce an English- 
man to declare war again. And here we have an example 
to the contrary. But I must crush you, my friend. I really 
must crush you.” 

“ Gad ! ” cried the Captain. “ Can’t you open fire without 
so much parley ? We are waiting for your shot.” 

“ Tyrrell ” — Herr Eaumer turned upon him once more — 
“I am almost sorry for you, and I have never been sorry 
for any one yet. Such a pity ! The Worshipful the Mayor! 
The rich and prosperous lawyer ! The close relative of the 
great Pontifex family ! With so large a balance at the 
bank, and so many shares, and such an excellent business I 


382 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


And all to come to such a sudden and disagreeable end. It 
does seem a pity/' 

“Pluck up, ^his is all bounce.” 

I wondered if it was. At that moment Mr. Tyrrell quietly 
went to the safe. 

“ I will not trouble you to open the safe. It is already 
open.” 

Herr Raumer sat down and looked at him. 

“ This is a stroke of genius,” said he. “ I did not think 
you had it in you. Were you, too. Captain, an accomplice? 
He finds my safe open, or he gets a key, or in some way 
opens it ; he takes the compromising papers, and then, you 
see, in full family gathering he defies me. It is an excellent 
situation, well led up to and well contrived, and executed 
admirably. Tyrrell, you are a dramatist lost to your 
country.” 

He did not appear the least disconcerted ; he took it as 
quite natural that he should be defeated by deceit, craft, 
and cunning ; they were weapons which he held to be uni- 
versal and legitimate ; he had, as he might cynically say, 
used them himself all his life. Now, in an unexpected 
manner, he was actually met and defeated by his own 
methods. 

“ This is really refreshing. Who is the best man in all 
the town, Ladislas Pulaski ? Is it George Tyrrell ? Why, 
he is better than the best, because he is the cleverest.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Mr. Tyrrell, as he took a bundle of 
papers tied in red tape out of the safe. “ I found this open 
last night. I suppose you left it open. There are all your 
papers — untouched.” 

The German snatched them from his hands, and began to 
turn them over. 

“ All ? All ? ” He untied the tape, and opened paper 
after paper. “ All ? Impossible.” He looked carefully 
through the whole bundle. As he got to the end his face 
changed, and he looked bewildered. “ They are all here,” 
he said, looking at us with a sort of dismay. “ What is the 
meaning of this ? ” 


CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER. 383 

He sat down with the papers in his hands, as if he were 
facing a great and astonishing problem. 

You are a theologian, Mr. Pontifex, and have presum- 
ably studied some of the leading cases in what they call 
sin. Did you ever read of such a case as this ? ” 

When I was a young man at Oxford (where — ahem — I 
greatly distinguished myself), I certainly did — ahem — study 

a science called Logic, which my reckless companions ” 

A man,” interrupted Herr Eanmer, and addressing his 
remarks to me, “ a man gets possession of a bundle of papers 
which contain facts the suppression of which is all-important. 
He may destroy them without fear ; no one knov/s about 
them except a single person who has no other proof; he 
deliberately adopts a line of conduct towards that person — 
who is a hard man with no sentimentality about him, and 
who has never once forgiven anybody any single wrong, 
however small — which that person is bound to resent. 
And while he does this he hands back to that hard and 
revengeful person the very papers which alone give him the 
power of revenge. That is the most extraordinary line of 
action I have ever seen pursued, or ever read of. What am 
I to think of it ? Is it part of a deeper plot ? ” 

Rubbish,” said the Captain. ‘‘ Can’t a man avoid a 
dishonourable thing without having a plot ? Do you sup- 
pose we are all schemers and conspirators?” 

‘‘ The English are, indeed, a wonderful race,” said Herr 
Raumer. 

Can you not believe in a common act of honesty ? Man 
— man ! ” said the Captain, what sort of life has yours 
been ? ” 

I have seen a good deal of the world,” Herr Raumer 
went on, meditatively. I was in Vienna and in Paris in 
1848. You got a considerable amount of treachery there. 
But I never before saw a case of a man who had ruin — yes 
— ruin staring him in the face — who was too honest to 
prevent it. Too honest.” 

He sat down and resumed his blue spectacles, and then 
took his hat, still holding the papers in his hands. 


384 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


At last lie said witL an effort — 

I honour the first piece of genuine honesty that I have 
ever, in the whole course of my life, actually witnessed. ^ All 
men,’ I said at my leisure, ‘ are liars.’ George Tyrrell, I give 
you back these papers. Take them and use them as you 
please. Best bum them. I give you the key of my safe ; 
you can paint my name out to-morrow, if you please. Gentle- 
meu, you will all three, I am sure, wish to keep this secret of 
our friend’s life, as far as you know it, locked up and for- 
gotten. Mr. Pontifex, you will say nothing about it to — to 
the she-dragon ” 

“ I promised not to shake him, Johnny,” Mr. Pontifex said, 
as if that engagement was sacred, and the only thing which 
prevented him from committing an act of violence. 

Allans said the philosopher gaily, ‘Met us be friends, 
Tyrrell ; shake hands. I am going to leave this town, where 
I have spent ten years of my life, and shall return to-morrow 
or next day — to — to the Continent. I shall see you again, 
Ladislas. Perhaps this afternoon.” 

He stopped at the door. 

“Tell Celia,” he said, “that she is free, and that I shall 
always regret that I could not take her away with me.” 

He laughed and went away. 

Then we all looked at each other as if we had been in a 
dream. There was actually a weak spot in the whole armour 
of cynicism with which Herr Eaumer had clad himself, and 
we had found it. 

Celia rescued. Andromeda free ; the loathly dragon driven 
away ; Andromeda’s papa delivered from personal and private 
terror on his own account ; and by the strangest chance, the 
whole brought about, though not continued by me. I, who 
borrowed the key ; I, who did a mean and treacherous thing, 
which gave the opportunity of an honourable and fearless 
action. After all, as Herr Eaumer once said, the world would 
be but a dull place without its wickedness. It was as if 
Perseus, instead of fiying through the air with winged feet 
and a sword swift to slay, conscious that the eyes of the 


CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER. 


355 


Olympians were upon him, had crouched behind the rock 
when the ^gean wave lapped the white feet of the damsel, 
and from that safe retreat astonished the monster with a 
Whitehead torpedo. Nothing at all to be proud of. And yet 
no dragon assailed with a torpedo could be more astonished 
than our foreign friend at the exhibition of an undoubted 
act of pluck and honesty. No doubt the admonitions of the 
Captain spurred on the hero, out of which I came, myself, as 
I felt, rather badly. 

Let me say, once for all, that I do not know what the 
papers contained. Whether my old friend had committed a 
crime — whether it was forgery, or burglary, or anything else 
of which his conscience might have reproached him, and 
the opinion of the world looked askance upon, I do not 
know. Nothing more was ever said on the subject. The 
four actors in that little drama, including John Pontifex, 
maintained total silence. Even the safe disappeared. And 
neither then, nor at any subsequent period, was the leading 
lawyer of the town, its Mayor, its most eminent Free- 
mason, subjected to the slightest suspicion, attack, or 
misrepresentation. 

I asked to see Celia, but she had gone to her own room. 
I wrote a short note to her, sent it up, and went into the 
drawing-room, where Mrs. Pontifex and Mrs. Tyrrell, newly 
reconciled, were sitting in great state and friendliness. Cake 
and wine were on the table, not that the ladies wished to 
sustain nature, but that their production, like the pome- 
granate in the mysteries of Ceres, was a symbolical act. It 
meant reconciliation, and Mrs. Pontifex, who liked that the 
family should agree in the way she thought fit, contemplated 
the glass of sherry before her with an eye of peculiar satisfac- 
tion. I briefly narrated what had passed, glossing over the 
part that related to the papers, and dwelling chiefly on Herr 
liaumer’s disinterested and generous conduct. 

And what were the threats ? ” asked Mrs. Pontifex. 

‘‘There hardly appeared to be any threats,” I replied. 
“ Herr Raumer made some allusion to papers in the 
safe, but as he left papers and all with Mr. Tyrrell, I 


386 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


presume they were unimportant, and referred to private 
transactions.” 

I must say, Clara,” said Mrs. Pontifex, that George’s 
behaviour was very good throughout. I am much pleased. 
In a moment of weakness, no doubt, he listened to the pro- 
posals of this foreigner, who is, I admit, a clever and 
plausible person. Both George and Celia said quite the 
right thing in the right way, and I am greatly pleased. 
You say the man is gone, Ladislas ? ” 

‘‘Yes; he is going to leave the town, and return to the 
Continent.” 

“ So much the better. He and his church on Sunday 
mornings, where he hoped to catch Celia ! Fudge ! I can 
forgive most things, Clara,” — she did not look as if there was 
much she would forgive, but I am giving her own words — 
“ hypocrisy I cannot forgive. I watched him once actually 
pretending to listen to one of John Pontifex’s best sermons 
— that on Capernaum, which has, you remember, an applica- 
tion to the present condition of thoughtless mirth which has 
possessed our young people.” 

It was pleasant to feel that peace was restored between 
the two Houses of Pontifex and Tyrrell. More pleasant still 
to feel that a great danger had been averted. 

Let me hasten with the story of this day big with fate. 
Imagine, if you please, the newly-born pride of Leouard as 
he introduced Celia to “My aunt. Miss Eutherford.” Imagine 
the satisfaction and joy of that excellent lady on being quite 
certain that Moses — Moses with the spotty face and the 
passion for beer — was exchanged for this galla... and chival- 
rous young fellow — “he has got his fathers graces,” she 
whispered to me, “ and his mother’s sweetness.” 

Pass over the little tender scene where Miss Rutherford 
thanked the Captain solemnly for his care and bounty to 
“ her boy ” — we cannot describe everything ; there are some 
things which are better left unrecorded. It was a time of 
great joy. We had an early dinner at home — the Captain, 
as usual on great occasions, produced champagne. There was 


THE DEPUTATION. 


387 


Celia and Miss Eutherford, both shy and a little frightened 
of each other, but hopeful that each would turn out as 
delightful as she looked. There was Leonard, of course, 
and the Captain, and myself. And be sure that Mrs. Jeram 
had not’ been forgotten, before dinner — else why those tearful 
eyes with which Miss Rutherford left our old housekeeper, 
and which spoke of talk over the poor creature who staggered 
three-and-twenty years before into Mrs. Jeram’s arms, to 
die after giving birth to a man-child ? There was nothing 
noisy or mirthful in our party — nothing to illustrate Aunt 
Jane’s present condition of thoughtless mirth among youug 
people.” And but for the disquiet of the morning deputation, 
I should have been perfectly happy — as happy as Leonard 
and Celia. And Leonard’s face was like the sun in June 
for beaminess and warmth. 

We fell to talking over old times. The Captain discoursed 
on the boys and their admirable qualities; Leonard told 
stories of Mrs. Jeram’s manage and the fights he used to 
have with Moses; Miss Eutherford listened with delight. 
She was in a new atmosphere — this retired and secluded 
lady who knew nothing of the world — the atmosphere of the 
fighting world ; the old Captain who had fought ; the young 
oflScer who had fought ; I even belonged to a fighting stock. 
And it was half-past two when Celia took the elder lady 
away to introduce her to her mother — and we began to clear 
the decks for our deputation. 

“ You will let me be present,” said the Captain. I have 
something to say to them. Rebellion, indeed ! What sort 
of a rebellion is that got up by half-a-dozen exiles in foreign 
lands ? No, my boy, I don’t deny the right of the Poles to 
rebel — but you shall not throw away your life till the whole 
nation rises. Then, if you like, you may go.” 


388 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE DEPUTATION. 

F ive minutes for rest and reflection. What would this 
deputation of Poles say to me, and what was I to say 
to them ? How to receive them ? Was I to feign an 
ardour I did not possess ; to put on the zeal of passionate 
Wassielewski, and clamour for the revenge which ray English 
training made me hold to be impotent and barbaric ; to 
throw in my lot with a knot of hopeless enthusiasts, and for 
the gratitude and respect I bore to one man to throw away 
my life in mad enterprise ? 

Or — the other line — was I to stand before them and say, 
like another Edgar Atheling — I have no thought or care 
about the Fatherland; I am a Pole in name only; I will 
not fight myself, nor lend you my name, nor join your ranks. 
Go your own way. Let the dead past be buried, and for 
the future the cause of Polish freedom shall have no aid from 
me.” Or — lastly — could I say, I am an Englishman, and 
not a Pole ; I have an Englishman’s sympathy with an 
oppressed people ; but I see no sense in obscure risings, and 
I hate conspiracies ” ? 

And yet that was the truth. Wassielewski, a son of the 
soil, preserved all the prejudices and most of the ignorance 
of his country. His ideas of revenge were barbaric, but 
he did not know that ; to shoot down Russians because, 
twenty years before, Russians had been made to commit 
unheard-of atrocities — as if we should suddenly resolve on 
murdering Hindoos in memory of Cawnpore — was in his 
mind a great, a noble, a patriotic act — more — an act which 
was pleasing in the eyes of his dead mistress, my mother, 
the Lady Claudia. 

It is true that there were moments when the old con- 
spirator’s projects and plots had appeared to me admirable 
and worthy of emulation ; when the thought of my father’s 
cruel march through winter snows and summer heats on his 
weary way to be slowly done to death among the commonest 


THE DEPUTATION. 


3S9 


and vilest criminals maddened me ; or when I looked at the 
wooden cross he carved in the gloom of the Siberian mine 
for me, his little child, whom he was never to see again ; 
or when I pictured him as he had been seen a year or two 
before he died, white-haired at thirty, aged and bent ; or 
vrhen I remembered — the anguish of that memory has never 
left me — the convoy of carts filled with children dragged 
from their mothers, the despairing women who ran behind 
crying, shrieking for their little ones — my own poor mother 
among them. Then, indeed, as now, I should be less than 
human did not the blood boil in my veins, did not the 
pulses quicken within me, did not a passionate desire for 
some kind of wild justice well up in my heart. Eevenge 
is insatiable — had one killed with the vigour of a Nero, the 
spilling of blood could never quench the righteous wrath, 
or deaden the pangs of sorrow and pain which would rise 
again in thinking of that great suffering, that most terrible 
crime. My mother, without doubt, has long since, in the 
land where all tears are wiped away, forgiven. I cannot 
forgive, for her sake. Perhaps I understand how sins 
against oneself may be forgiven, but not sins against those 
we love. Lastly, against this conflict of opposing forces 
I had to place the calm good sense of the man whom 
most I had to consider — the Captain ; the entreaties of the 
girl whom most I had to love ; the firm decision of Leonard, 
that, happen what might, I should not be dragged into 
the plot. 

I hope I have not tried to depict myself in any false 
colours. I was not a hero; in calm moments I saw the 
madness of the projected insurrection. I knew that such 
revenge as the old conspirator proposed was wild and useless; 
and yet, in his presence, by the enthusiasm of his ardour I 
was carried away, so to speak, out of myself, and was ready 
to dare and to do. But since Leonard's arrival this infection 
of enthusiasm had been checked. By his help I saw things 
in their true light. 

You, Laddy ? ” said Leonard, laughing. “ You to go 
out a-rebelling, with your face and your eyes ? Go tell the 


390 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


Eussians who and what you are ; announce your intention of 
raising the standard of insurrection ; they will laugh at you ; 
they will take you in and make much of you, give you a 
piano, and refuse to let you come home again because you 
play so well. We are no longer in the days of the terrible 
Nicholas. Alexander has begun a new era for Eussia, which 
Wassielewski and his friends cannot understand.” 

“ I am too obscure,” I said, bitterly, even to do any 
mischief.” 

Any man,” said the Captain, can do mischief. I was 
aboard a frigate once that was set on fire by a powder- 
monkey. If you want to do mischief, Laddy, in Poland or 
anywhere else, you can do it.” 

I have mentioned once before little Dr. Eoy, the neatest 
and most dapper of tiny men. He, too, must needs join in 
the general cry. 

I hear,” he said, one day meeting me in the street, 1 
hear a whisper that the Poles are stirring, and they want to 
make use of you and your name.” 

I made no answer. 

Don’t,” he said impressively. Believe a man who 
once risked his neck in rebellion that it is a most miserable 
line to take up. It was in Canada — I daresay you have 
heard something about it. We had grievances ; we made a 
clamour about them ; the Government would not give in ; so 
we rose, and we did a little fighting. It wasn’t very much, 
but it brought out pretty clearly all the miseries of revolt. 
We were put down. Everything that we rebelled to gain 
was granted by the British Government ; everything, pro- 
perly represented, would have been granted without rebellion. 
We had our revolt, our fighting, our loss of life ; our destruc- 
tion of property ; our jealousies and personal squabbles ; our 
treacheries and our treasons ; our trials and our escapes — 
just all for nothing. No one got any good out of it at all, 
not even the half-dozen who went across to the States to 
gas about their bravery. Even the grandeur of being a 

rebel ”I thought of Herr Eaumer’s remarks on the 

rebel’s enjoyment of being shot — “ does not compensate for 


THE DEPUTATION. 


391 


the trouble. And then to find out that you have no real 
grievances, after all. My own reward for the Canada rising 
was that I lost a capital practice in a very delightful 
Canadian town ; that I was very nearly caught ; that if they 
had caught me I should have been hanged ; and that I am 
here on sufferance, because — which I am not afraid of — they 
might arrest and hang me to morrow on the old account. 
For Heaven s sake, Pulaski, keep out of rebellions. They 
won’t give you back your father’s lands.” 

All in the same tale ; Herr Raumer’s sneers and contempt 
were on the same side as Celia’s prayers. Little Dr. Eoy 
wuth his experiences was on the same side as the Captain. 

And, against all these, I had to consider especially poor 
old Wassielewski. The old man, crazed with inextinguish- 
able rage, looked on me as an instrument, ready to his 
hand, given him by Providence. For my part, I had to 
regard him as my saviour, the protector of my infancy, the 
faithful friend of my father, the devoted servant of my 
mother. Could I inflict upon him the cruel pain, the bitter 
humiliation, of seeing a Pulaski refuse to fight for Poland ? 
Every Pole, he used to say, owed his life absolutely to his 
country. When he cannot fight to defend his rights, he 
ouoht to die in order that his people may not forget 
them, 

1 venture on a suggestion to rulers and despots. There 
are two or three ways of treating unsuccessful rebels. To 
shoot them publicly, transport them, torture their wives, and 
issue arbitrary laws of repression — all this is simply to give 
the Cause immortality. That is what the Russians have 
always done. The best way, surely, would be to forgive 
them, simply, and take away their arms, and to say, “ My 
^’’iends, you have now neither guns nor powder. We are not 
going to give you any. Sit down and grow your crops.” 
Then such hot-headed irreconcilables as my old friend would 
be impossible. Or if they must be punished with death, 
then let it be done, as with Jugurtha and Catiline’s conspi- 
rators, in the secrecy of some dark dungeon where newspaper 
correspondents cannot penetrate. 


392 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


Where are they, these heroes of Poland ? ” asked 
Leonard, laughing. He was determined that the thing 
should not be treated seriously. “ Let us push the table back 
to the window — so. Now, Laddy, if you stand there on the 
hearthrug to receive them, it will be like holding a Levee. 
The Captain shall be your Court — I will be your aide-de- 
camp. And here they are.’’ 

Five men, headed by Wassielewski, came solemnly into 
the room, nearly filling it up. The last of the five shut the 
xloor carefully as if he was shutting out the world. But it 
opened again, and to my boundless astonishment admitted 
Herr Eaumer, in his blue spectacles. He came in as if in- 
vited to take part in the ceremony, walked across the room, 
and stood in the window, his back to the light, beside the 
Captain. We formed two groups, I on the hearthrug, with 
Leonard at my right hand ; and on the left the Captain, who 
contemplated the strangers with eyes of no favour, and 
beside him our German friend, to whom, since his magna- 
nimous conduct in the matter of Celia, one felt an access of 
friendliness. And before us, the five men of my father’s 
nation. 

It was, as Leonard said, something like a Lev^e, only 
there was a certain incongruity about it which made one 
feel rather ashamed. 

It was curious to consider that the men who stood before 
us were, so to speak, pledged to fall for their country. One 
thought of the prisoners brought out to fight their last battle 
with each other ; every man resolute to make a brave show 
and please the thousands ; every one hopeless of any escape ; 
every one looking forward with a certain fearful expectation 
to the down- turning of the thumb ; one or two perhaps, the 
more aged men, not sorry to escape the miseries of captivity 
in the glorious rush and shout of vivid battle ; some whose 
thoughts turned back — then Leonard touched my shoulder, 
and I gave my attention to things present. Wassielewski 
was there to introduce ; not, he said, to speak. He wore a 
satisfied and even a glad expression. The long-wished for 
moment had arrived. He had brushed his black coat and 


THE DEPUTATION. 


393 


buttoned it tightly round his long lean figure ; his white 
hair was combed back and fell behind his head, leaving his 
face standing out keen and eager with bright and deep-set 
eyes, and full white beard. His nervousness and restless 
manner was gone. You might think of him thus calm and 
collected charging his rifle for one more shot in a hailstorm 
from the advancing grey-coats. 

The first of the four who came with him, and the most 
important, was a Pole about forty years of age; a tall, up- 
right, and strong man, looking like a Frenchman in dress 
and the cut of his hair. His eyes had something of the wild 
look which characterised Wassielewski. 

Wassielewski was about to introduce him to me, when he 
broke away and advanced, speaking in French, with a certain 
gaiety of manner, and held out his hand — to Leonard. 

Count Pulaski,” he said, we are indeed rejoiced to find 
you like your father, among the friends of Poland. Was- 
sielewski had not prepared us for such an accession to our 
ranks.” 

I was hardened by this time to any reference to my 
deformity, but I must own that it was not without a pang 
that I witnessed disappointment in his face, as Leonard 
bowed and indicated myself, the hunchback. 

‘‘ Pardon, M. le Comte,” he said. ‘‘ This is my friend, 
Ladislas Pulaski.” 

The Pole’s face fell, in spite of a polite attempt to disguise 
his disappointment. To be sure, there was some difference 
between a tall and handsome young man, whose very face 
commanded trust, and proclaimed him a natural leader, and 
myself, short, round-backed, and dreamy-eyed. We shook 
hands, and he said nothing, but stepped aside to make room 
for the other three. I received the greetings of all in turn. 
One of them was a short and thick -set man, apparently an 
artisan, a man of fifty or so, in ragged and threadbare 
blouse, whose face was decorated like Wassielewski’s with a 
sabre cut. Another was a much older man in spectacles and 
black cloth clothes. This was a Professor in some American 
College, who had come across the Atlantic in vacation to see 


m 


BY CELIACS ABBOUB. 


his compatriots, and learn the chances. The third was, I 
believe, an importation from Warsaw direct, who spoke 
nothing but Polish, and was pained to find that I could not 
understand him. It seems strange that Wassieleski should 
have allowed me to grow up in ignorance of so important a 
thing. As they stood before me I was struck with a resem- 
blance which they all seemed to bear to each other. It was 
only for a moment, and was due, I suppose, to the Slavonic 
type of face. And oddly enough, Herr Eaumer’s face bore 
this same characteristic. I thought of Leonard’s suspicions. 
Could he, too, be a Slav? But it was absurd to harbour 
suspicions against one who had actually been converted — 
that very morning — to the conviction that there may be 
honest men in the world. 

We are all friends of Poland, I suppose?” said the 
leader of the deputies, looking suspiciously around. It was 
odd that no one, not even Wassielewski, took the least notice 
of Herr Eaumer. 

I am an old friend of Ladislas,” said Leonard. I am 
almost his brother, as Wassielewski knows. But we will 
withdraw if you wish.” 

He is an officer in the British army. He has fought the 
Muscovite,” said the old man. “ He may stay.” 

The first speaker, the Gallicised Pole, drew out a paper. 

“ This is little more,” he said, ‘‘ than a meeting to make 
the acquaintance of a young Pole of illustrious descent, great 
misfortunes, and undoubted talents.” 

I bowed. 

‘‘Whose pursuits, we learn, have hitherto been peaceful. 
We hear, however, with pleasure, that we may confidently 
look for his adhesion, whenever we find it possible ” 

“ That is, immediately,” said Wassielewski. 

“ To take practical steps in the desired direction.” 

“ To call Poland once more to arms,” explained Wassie- 
lewski. “ Speak, Ladislas Pulaski.” 

“Gentlemen,” I said, speaking in French, “you see me as 
I am; deformed from my childhood, bearing a name that 
c^n never be made glorious by any achievement of my own. 


THE HEPUTATIOl^. 395 

You know my story, and tlie fate of my father. Wassie- 
lewski has urged upon me to join you.” 

And I,” said Leonard, also in French, have urged upon 
him the madness and folly of joining in your plans. Gentle- 
men — you, M. le Comte ” — he addressed the chief of them — 
‘‘are not wild enthusiasts. If you concert any plan of 
rebellion, draw it up without consulting my friend, Ladislas 
Pulaski. He is not a soldier, nor is he of the stuff which 
makes soldiers. He is a poet and a musician. If you must 
pit the feeble resources of a province — I beg your pardon — * 
a nation like Poland against the armies of a mighty empire 
which has been able to resist for two years the combined 
forces of England, France, and Turkey, do not add to your 
numbers a man who in the field will be useless to you, 
whose death can do you no good, and whose life may do 
others much good.” 

The leader hesitated. Then he whispered to Wassielewski. 

And then the old Captain had his say. 

“I do not,” he said, stepping forward, and laying his 
hand upon my shoulder — “ I do not unfortunately under- 
stand any language but my own. I have never regretted 
the fact till the present moment. Gentlemen, this boy is my 
son. I have adopted him, I have educated him, I refuse to 
let him go.” 

“ The name of Poland ” began my old conspirator. 

‘‘In the name of Poland,” said the Captain, “I would 
let him go if I thought he would be of any use. But 
this is not in the name of Poland. It is — pardon me if 
I am rough — in the name of a conspiracy. Assure me, 
if you can, that the nation is with you, and Ladislas 
shall go.” 

“No, no,” cried poor old Wassielewski. “He comes of 
his own accord, he cannot be kept back, he fights for his 
mother’s wrongs. Tell me, Ladislas, tell me, is not that the 
case ? ” 

His voice trembled, his eyes were so pathetic that I could 
not resist their appeal. I took his hand, and pressed it, but 
I had no word to say. 


396 BY CELIA’S AEBOIJR. 

The man they called the Count looked disappointed and 
uneasy. 

‘‘This is not” he said to Leonard, “quite the reception 
which we expected. Still no doubt there is truth in what 
you urge, and besides — besides — nothing is quite certain. 
Be assured, M. le Capitaine,” he addressed the Captain, “ that 
we shall spare Count Pulaski if possible. If his name will 
help us, and if we can satisfy you that we obey the voice of 
the nation, we may call upon him ” 

“ If — if? ” repeated Wassielewski. “ Why, are the Poles 
gone mad to forget the glorious name of Pulaski ? ” 

“ Not mad, my friend,” said the Count. “ But twenty 
years have passed. In Polish villages, where there are no 
books and no papers, much is forgotten in twenty years.” 

I understood his look as he said these words. I was not 
to go. Of what use could I be, and who after all these 
years would be stirred for a moment by the intelligence that 
a Pulaski had joined the insurgents? Was my first feeling 
one of relief or of humiliation ? 

But the conference was brought to a sudden and unex- 
pected end. The Count, looking round, perceived Herr 
Eaumer standing modestly in the shade of the curtain. 

“ And who is this gentleman ? ” he asked. “ Is he also 
a friend of yours. Count Pulaski ? ” 

Before I could answer, Herr Eaumer replied for me. It 
was in his most mocking tone, which brought out the 
curious rasp in his voice. It was a voice which somehow 
haunted one — you could never forget it. I hear it still, 
sometimes, in dreams. 

“ A friend of Ladislas Pulaski, and a friend to Poland. 
Perhaps a closer friend than any of you. Pray proceed with 
your papers, M. le Comte.” 

It was the ragged workman, the man in the blue blouse, 
who sprang forward as if he had been shot, and pushing every- 
body aside, began gazing in the German s face, gesticulating 
and gasping. 

“ I know that voice,” he cried. “ I have heard that 
voice — many times. When? In Warsaw. From whom? 


THE DEPUTATION. 


397 

From an agent of tlie police — tlie police — the Eussian. 
police.” 

His voice rose to a shriek. Herr Eaumer did not move 
or answer. His massive face seemed to be of marble as he 
stood there returning the others gaze. And when the 
workman removed his blue spectacles he made no resistance, 
nor any sign. 

Who is this man, Wassielewski ? asked the Count. 

“ I do not know,” he replied, carelessly. I did not see 
him come in. I have seen him walking with Ladislas. He 
belongs to the town.” 

Man ! ” cried the ouvrier^ do you not know his voice ? 
Are you deaf then ? Have you forgotten ? Speak again — 
you. Speak, spy ! ” 

But Herr Eaumer did not speak. He folded his arms, 
looking down upon the little ouvrier with an expression of 
great contempt. But he did not speak. 

The workman shrieked in a kind of rage. 

Mais Old” he cried, mais oui. I am not mistaken. 
Wassielewski, M. le Comte, look at this man, I say again. 
Look at him. Here is treachery, here is a spy of the 
Muscov. We are invited to meet a Pole — bah! a Pole who 
cannot speak his own tongue — and we find our enemy in 
the middle of us. Mes frhres^^ he looked round him with a 
face which revenge and hatred made a curious and hideous 
caricature, ‘‘ mes frhres^ shall we let this man leave the house 
alive ? ” 

Enfin^'' cried the Count. Who is he? Is it any use. 
Count Pulaski, asking you who he is ? ” 

It is Herr Eaumer,” I said, a German gentleman, 
who has lived in the town for many years.” 

Who brought him here ?” asked the chief. 

‘‘ He came in with you,” I replied. “ I thought Wassie- 
lewski brought him.” The old man, puzzled and uneasy, 
shook his head. He was so eager to begin the fighting, 
this veteran rebel, that this preliminary talk, even talk of 
traitors and spies, worried him. No: he had not brought 
in this stranger, he said. 


398 


fir CELIA'S AfifiOUR. 


Then Herr Eaumer laughed and spoke. 

“ I came,” he said, in that deep bass voice which jarred 
upon our nerves like a violoncello out of tune, I came un- 
invited. Let that be understood. I was not asked to come 
by. any one. I wished to make one in this gathering of 
Polish conspirators. It is a movement in which I take so 
deep an interest that I may be excused for wishing to know 
all that goes on.” 

Of course he was sneering, and, equally of course, he did 
not expect to be believed. 

The Parisian Pole shrieked and danced with rage, ejacu- 
lating, cursing, pouring out imprecations with a volubility 
almost incredible. 

Here ! ” he cried, a little exhausted, here ! In the very 
presence of the young Count Pulaski. You. Wassielewski, 
look at him. Do you not know him ? ” 

He lifted himself on his toes and hissed a name in 
Wassielewski’s ear. 

The old man staggered. 

Here — in the same town — all these years — and I not to 

know it ” — he cried. Not to know it ” Then he 

advanced upon Herr Eaumer, tall, threatening, wild-eyed, 
waving his arms like the sails of a windmill. 

“ Oh ! men — men — shall we kill him?” 

He was hungry for the blood of the spy. Had he pos- 
sessed a weapon, I think there would have been an end of 
him at once. Two of the others, the Professor and the 
Count, placed themselves before the door, and the man in 
the blouse danced round and round, loudly crying that he 
should be killed and that at once. 

He is a spy — 0 Ladislas ! — hope of my heart — the son 
of my dear mistress whom this man murdered, what have 
you told him about us — about our plans?” 

“Nothing, Wassielewski. Eemember — I know nothing.” 

“ He has told the spy nothing,” Wassielewski repeated. 
“ Have you eaten his bread, Ladislas ? Have you entered 
his house ? Have you taken his hand ? ” 

“ I have done all those things,” I replied. 


THE DEPUTATION. 


399 


Herr Eaumer langhed. 

He has done all those things. Why not, conspirator and 
rebel ? ” 

Wassielewski pointed to the man in the blouse. 

Tell him,” he said, tell Ladislas Pulaski why he should 
not have done those things/' 

He should not have eaten his bread, or entered his house, 
or taken his hand, because the bread is paid for by Russia, 
because the house is the house of a Russian spy, and because 
the hand is red with Polish blood/' 

And more — and more," said Wassielewski. 

^‘Much more. That hand was the hand which arrested 
Roman Pulaski on his way to the Austrian frontier. It is 
the hand of the man who led the Cossacks when they robbed 
the Polish mothers of their children. Count Ladislas Pulaski, 
there stands the man who murdered your mother, and made 
you what you are." 

^^More," said Wassielewski. ‘‘More." 

“ It is the hand of the man who drove Roman Pulaski 
along the road from Warsaw to Siberia.” 

Leonard laid his hand upon my shoulder. 

“ Steady, Laddy — quiet, dear boy, patience.” 

Then the Count spoke. 

“It is unfortunate. We might have known that Russian 
spies would be in this place somewhere. We did not expect 
to find one in our very midst.” 

“Among us all these years, and I never knew him," 
groaned poor Wassielewski. “Poles! What shall we do 
with this man ? " 

“ Meantime," said the Count, “ we have to face the fact 
that he has been here to-day, that he knew of our coming, 
and the reason of it, and that all our proceedings will be re- 
ported immediately to St. Petersburg. This, at least, changes 
our plans." 

“ Not to-day’s proceedings. For he shall die — he shall 
die I " cried the workman. 

And then there was a dead silence. The men looked at 
each other, as if asking who would strike the blow. 


400 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


The Captain interfered. 

‘‘ Gentlemen,” he said, ‘‘ do not forget that whatever this 
man is, or has been, he is in my house, and in England, and 
must be allowed to go unhurt. You cannot, as you might in 
Poland, kill him as a spy. That is impossible. You must 
let him go.” 

Let him go ? ” cried the Parisian, springing to the front. 

Never ! ” 

I will do the man justice. He never flinched or showed 
the slightest fear. But the Count drew him back gently. 

Let him go in peace,” he said. In England we cannot 
shoot him. Go ! all that we can do, Monsieur le Mouchard, 
is to parade your name, to describe your person, to make 
your calling impossible unless you can disguise yourself, and 
therefore to ruin you with the Secret Service Department. 
Go, loathed and accursed among men ! Go, canaille ! ” 

He turned from him with such a gesture as Peter might 
have made to Judas. Leonard, to my astonishment, took 
Herr Raumer by the arm, and led him to the door, going 
out with him, as the Poles fell back right and lett. Wassie- 
lewski and the man in the blouse whispered together for a 
moment, and then followed together. That boded ill for the 
spy, and I was relieved, on the whole, to think that Leonard 
was with him. 

I was left alone with the three Poles and the Captain. 

Count Pulaski,” said the leader, “I greatly deplore this 
accident. I hoped that we should have been able to lay 
before you all our plans, to enlist you in the cause, and to 
hold out hopes of an immediate insurrection.” 

And now ? ” 

Now, we have no plan. We must first find out how far 
our secrets have been made known by that man.” 

‘‘ Can I not help you ? ” I asked. ‘‘ I am — what you see 
me — but I might do something yet for Poland.” 

‘‘ Y'ou shall live for Poland,” he went on, with a sad but 
kindly smile. No ; we shall not, as your friend said, add 
murder to revolt in dragging you away from your peaceful 
life. Think, if you can, sometimes, of those who have 


HEEP. EAUMER’S INTENTIONS. 


401 


personal sufferings and degradations burning in their souls. 
You have none. My back has felt the Kussian stick ; my 
cheek yet burns with the Russian blow. Still, you have the 
memory of your fathers death, and you cannot love the 
Russian cause. Forget us as soon as you can. I shall take 
Wassielewski away, and leave you free. We shall have 
meetings, I suppose, but you will not be asked to join. 
Everything is uncertain, because in London, Paris, every- 
where the mouchards throng. And of all mouchards^ the 
most crafty, the most difficult to detect, is the Russian. I 
wish you farewell. Count Pulaski.’’ 

He took my hand and was gone, followed by his three 
friends, and I was left alone. 

This was the end of my grand deputation. 

I was free ! my promise would never be fulfilled ; I was 
relieved of my pledge. And I was profoundly humiliated. 
For I was allowed to go as one who could be of no use to the 
Cause. I saw the disappointment on the chiefs face when 
he turned from Leonard to me; I saw the readiness with 
which he acquiesced in Leonard’s expostulation ; I was of no 
use to him or to his party. The last of my race was another 
Edgar Atheling. 

And would they think — no — they could not — that I had 
revealed the plot to this Russo-German spy ? Or that I was 
a foolish creature who could not hold his tongue ? 


CHAPTER XLV. 

HERR RAUMER’S INTENTIONS. 

I N the street Leonard released his hold of Herr Raumer’s 
arm. 

You are free,” he said. Go your own way.” 

The spy laughed. 

Of course I knew there was no danger. The danger 
begins now. Come with me to my lodgings. I have some- 
thing to say to you.” 

Leonard followed him. 

2 C 


402 


BY CELIA’ S ABBOUR. 


In his own place the man opened a bottle of hock, and 
after offering a glass to Leonard, who refused, drank glass 
after glass without stopping. 

Nothing,” he said, steadies the nerves like hock. So 
you will not drink with a member of the Russian Secret 
Service ? No. You will not sit down in his room ? No. 
You will not take his hand ? No. You think it a disgrace to 
belong to that service ? Good. That is not a disgrace, but it 
is disgraceful to be found out, and I do not disguise from you 
that it will not do me good at headquarters to have been dis- 
covered. After all, they will remember that I have had a 
good long run. 

Our friend in the blue blouse” — he sat down and crossed 
his legs— was quite right, though he put things roughly. 
The Poles cannot see the other side of the question. That is 
why I wanted to explain to you one or two little things.” 

He paused, as if trying to find words. 

I cannot hope,” he said, to make you understand that 
the execution of orders in the Police is no more disgraceful 
than in. the Army. I did arrest Roman Pulaski. I tracked 
him down, and caught him just upon the frontier. That 
was my duty. I did escort him part of the way to Siberia, 
whither he walked on foot. That was my duty. The 
sentence was the Czar s. I was his servant. Do you blame 
me ? No ; you cannot. As regards the other charge about 
the children, that is also partly true. I was not in charge of 
the carts — but I rode part of the way with them. I am in 
no mood for lying, or for defending myself with you, but I 
ask you to let young Pulaski know that this is the first I 
have heard about his connection with that day. I did not 
know, when I first made his acquaintance, that he was one 
of the victims of that — that — excess of zeal on the part of 
our Cossack friends. I knew nothing about his mother. You 
may believe me or not when I tell you that when I made his 
acquaintance — when I found him to be a poet and a dreamer 
— I resolved to prevent him if possible from being led to 
death by a madman. Do you blame me for that? ” 

“ Yes,” Leonard replied. I blame you for ever speaking 


HERR RAUMER’S INTENTIONS. 403 

to him or knowing him. I blame you — because you are 
a spy.” 

A servant in the Secret Service Department. Yes, and 
in that capacity I have been of use to my country.” 

I dare say you have,” said Leonard. ‘‘ I do not care to 
hear about that. I have only one more thing to say. Did 
you happen, when you came away, ‘to catch the expression 
in old Wassielewski’s eyes?” 

I did. I watched all the eyes. Shall I tell you what 
they said as plainly as eyes can speak ? That boy looked at 
me with a sort of wonder, as if it was not possible ; the 
Professor with curiosity; the Count with disappointment, 
but no surprise. I know the Count, he is a clever man, 
and, if he does not get shot in Poland, will rise in Paris. 
The old Captain would have liked to hang me up at the 
yard-arm, and the other two, Wassielewski and our Parisian, 
looked murder.” 

I came with you, to warn you.” 

‘‘ Thank you very much ; I need no warning.” 

What are you going to do ? ” 

Murder and revenge,” he repeated. That sounds ugly. 
But I have seen the look of murder in a good many eyes 
before now. The look does not kill. I shall do nothing.” 

“ You will remain here ? ” 

‘‘Yes, here — in this town — in this house. They may come 
up here to murder me. I have pistols. I sleep with the 
door locked. I shall not be frightened away by any pair of 
Polish patriots.” 

“ That will not do at all,” said Leonard. “ You must go 
away.” 

“ Must ? and why ? ” 

He explained that there were other reasons besides the 
fear of those two. These Poles would spread it abroad that 
he was a Russian spy ; the town was full of sailors only a 
year or so from the Crimean War, and that an English mob 
were generally rough. 

Lastly, Leonard assured him that so far as lay in his 
power he should take care that he should enter no respect- 


404 


BY CELIA’S ABBOUR. 


able person’s bouse, that bis profession should be told 
everybody, and that a bigbly coloured description of tbe 
deputation scene should be forwarded to the local and to 
the London papers. 

Then Herr Eaumer gave way. 

“ You are a pertinacious man,” be said, “ and you want to 
see me go. Well. I will go to-day. Will that satisfy you?” 

“ I want, for the sake of poor old Wassielewski, to avoid 
a scandal. See,” — Leonard pointed to the window — “tbe 
little man in tbe blouse is watching you in tbe street.” 

This was indeed tbe case. He was marching backwards 
and forwards, gesticulating and incessantly casting an eye 
at the door of tbe enemy’s bouse. 

“ Go in tbe daytime,” said Leonard. “ There is a train 
to London at five — go by that.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the spy. “ Perhaps by a later train. 
But I shall go to-day. That I promise you, for Wassielew ski’s 
sake. 

“ All this,” he went on, after more hock, “ all this, I con- 
fess, is horribly annoying to me. I had formed a pleasant 
plan for the future which has been entirely disarranged. 
At sixty-two one does not like to have one's plans upset. 
I pictured to myself ten years of ease and retirement from 
active work, giving my advice and experience to the Depart- 
ment, going on those special missions reserved for the higher 
officers of the service, decorated, pensioned, and living at 
St. Petersburg with a young and beautiful wife. I confess 
I am disappointed. Now, I dare say, I shall never marry 
at all. After all, he who expects nothing from life gets the 
most. I am content.” 

“ I came away after that,” said Leonard. “ What a man 
it is ! He has no shame, he glories in his trade. I hope 
he will go, as he promised, but I am not easy about it. I 
should like to watch old Wassielewski, or lock him up. And 
it seems too much to think that he will go away in broad 
daylight like a man who isn’t a spy. Most likely he will 
steal away in the dark by cross-cuts and lanes, and on tiptoe, 
after the manner of a stage spy.” 


A FAMILY GATHEEING. 


405 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

A FAMILY GATHERING. 

S O all seemed settled, and there was nothing at all left 
for us but to rejoice and be glad together. All is 
well that ends well. Leonard and Celia were to be married, 
the Captain and I were to go on together as of old, there 
was to be no more threatening of insurrections, life would 
resume the same calm which is so dull to look back upon, 
and yet so happy while it lasts. We celebrated the event 
of ]!)elia’s engagement immediately by a family gathering 
that evening at Mr. Tyrrell’s. It was also an entertainment 
in commemoration of the reconciliation of Aunt Jane with 
her niece, and, if on that account alone, the best tea things 
were produced, and there was a lavish expenditure in the 
matter of muffins and tea-cakes. 

Nothing shows the march of civilisation more than the 
decay in the consumption of muffins and tea-cakes. Nobody 
has tea at all now, except at five o’clock, because those who 
remember what a tea-party used to be cannot call handing 
tea round in trays having tea. Nobody sits down now to 
a table covered with cake in various forms, but it was in 
those days the commonest form of entertainment. I suppose 
everybody of the middle classes looked upon a tea-party as 
the chief instrument of social intercourse, and Mrs. Tyrrell 
was by no means singular in attaching a symbolic importance 
to her best tea-service. 

Nothing could have been finer than the manner of 
Aunt Jane. She kept Celia beside her. She ofiered no 
objection whatever when her husband, presuming on the 
unusually fine weather, ventured to ask for more sugar. 
She made no allusion to any Christian privileges, either 
by way of example or admonition, and having found out 
that Miss Rutherford’s father had been a distinguished 
writer and preacher of the same school as herself, that is, 
of the severest Calvinistic type, she received her with 
marked cordiality. Calvinism in that gentle lady, however, 


4o6 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


was so tempered with native kindness that it lost all its 
terrors. 

As for Mr. Tyrrell, the removal of the weight upon him 
almost restored him to his youth. He made jokes ; he 
laughed ; he was attentive to his wife, he was not only 
happy again, but he had recovered his old confidence and 
importance. 

In the evening we played, Celia and I, then we sang 
duets, then Celia sang by herself, but only one song, because 
everybody wanted a little confidential talk with her in turn. 

First it was Aunt Jane. 

Well, my dear,’’ she said, with an inclination of the 
head in the direction of Leonard, as you have made your 
choice I suppose there is nothing more to say.” 

‘‘ But, dear Aunt,’' — well-brought-up yonng people in 
those days did not venture on such a respectful endearment 
as ‘‘Auntie” — I should like to have seen anyone address 
Mrs. Bontifex as “Auntie” — “you have no objection to 
Leonard, have you ? ’ 

“No — no,” she replied critically. “He is, I am told, 
though not yet a Professing Believer, not without hopes. 
A husband, my dear, is what a wife makes him. You would 
hardly believe, perhaps, the trouble which my husband, 
John Pontifex, has given me by the violence of his natural 
inclinations. All men, in the matter of eating and drink- 
ing, require strong and constant discipline. That you will 
have to administer with constant searchings into your own 
conscience. Mere worldliness I need hardly warn you 
against. You must not encourage your husband’s tendency 
to over-estimate the value of earthly distinctions, though I 
am glad to learn from his aunt that he comes of a County 
Family. We who have been blessed, by Providence, with 
County connections would be blind to our privileges did we 
not remember that fact. You will never forget your own 
maternal connections. I refer rather to military distinction. 
And, above all, my dear, guard against inordinate affection. 
1 need hardly warn you that before marriage any demon- 
stration of — of — of what I suppose you call Love, is highly 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


407 


improper. No girl who values herself or calls herself a 
Christian gentlewoman, would allow her lover to kiss her 
on the lips. My first husband, it is true, once surprised 
me by kissing what he called my marble brow. I never 
allowed John Pontifex more than the tip of my fingers. 
After marriage you will find they are not so anxious for 
kissing. Eemember that, my dear. 

He is what the world calls handsome, I fear,” — as if it 
were a blot upon his moral character — ‘‘and he has been 
successful so far.” Here she sighed, as if that was another 
moral blot. “ But he is young. I could have wished you 
to remain, as I did, single to the age of thirty, or even forty ; 
you then might have chosen a man some years your junior, 
and enjoyed the privileges which age and maturity add to 
marriage. That has been the case with John Pontifex.” 

Then it was the Captain. 

“ Come to me, Cis, my pretty,” the old man called her to 
sit beside him. “ Come and tell me all about it. And so 
you have accepted my boy Leonard, have you? Happy 
man ! I believe I am jealous of him. You must not forget 
the old house by the Milldam.” 

“ No,” said Cis. “ I shall not forget the old house, or its 
owner.” 

“ When is Leonard going to take you away ? DonT let 
him hurry you, Celia. We shall be dull when you are 
gone.” 

They protested to each other like a pair of lovers, the old 
Captain and the girl. I believe she loved the old man as 
well as any one, after Leonard. 

She looked shyly happy, and was as radiant as a moss- 
rose half-blown, with the sunshine on it. Her eyes kept 
lifting to Leonard as if she could not bear that he should 
be out of her sight for a moment, and they were full of a 
new, strange, and wonderful light. A change had fallen 
upon her all in a day. A man loved her, and she could 
give him love for love. It was no mushroom passion, the 
growth of a ballroom, brought into being by a pair of bright 
eyes, an intoxicating waltz, the whirl of white arms, and 


4o8 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


the glamour of music ; it was a life-long affection, suddenly 
ripened into love by the touch and words of Leonard the 
magician. I have watched other maidens since then, and 
have seen that look in some of their eyes, but not in all. 

She loves him ; loves him not,” I say, according to the 
light of her eyes. 

And not a word for me, Ois, for my own private 
ear?” 

What shall I say, Laddy ?” 

Are you perfectly content and happy, my dear ? ” 

Yes, Laddy, quite, quite happy. There is nothing that 
Heaven can give me more. I am more happy than I can 
say. And you ? There is no more danger about this Polish 
business ? ” 

Happily, none ; I am free. My poor old Wassielewski 
exaggerated the certainty of his insurrection. He saw 
what he wished to see. The Poles are not ready yet, and, so 
far as I am concerned, they would not have me if I wanted 
to go. Of that I am certain.” 

“ I am glad. I could not bear to think of you breathing 
revenge and bloodshed. You will stay at home and make 
the world happier with music, Laddy. You must be a great 
composer.” 

And then Mr. Pontifex claimed her. 

‘‘ I have, I believe,” he began, to offer my — ahem — my 
congratulations on so auspicious an event as your — in fact — 
your engagement. Marriage is an honourable condition, 
although not, as the Papists ignorantly make it, one of the 
Sacraments of the Church. We have known the young man 
your — your — in fact, your betrothed — for many years, and 
we rejoice to find that he has not only distinguished himself 
as greatly in — ahem — in action — as others,” meaning himself 
— sometimes distinguish themselves at Oxford in exami- 
nation, but he has also been enabled under Providence to 
recover what some would consider an indispensable condition 
of acceptance with a family of respectability — I mean re- 
spectable connections of his own.” 

Celia laughed. 


A FAMILY GATHERING. 


40$ 

all events, we liked Leonard before he had found 
Miss Rutherford.” 

That is most true. You will, however, Celia, be rejoiced 
to learn that Miss Rutherford herself belongs to a County 
family, and that Leonard, both on his father s side and his 
mother s, is of an excellent stock.” 

I am glad if Leonard is glad.” 

‘‘Your Aunt — in fact, Mrs. Pontifex — thinks that steps 
should be taken to put Leonard in communication with 
his father’s family, a subject on which she proposes to 
speak at another occasion. For the present, Celia, my 
dear, she will probably do no more than invite you to 
dinner. Mrs. Pontifex has resolved, I may say, upon having 
a dinner. I do not myself, I confess, greatly admire our 
own, or rather her style — ahem — of entertainment. I have, 
on one or two such occasions, arisen from the meal with 
an unsatisfied appetite. But we think too much on carnal 
things.” 

And all the time Leonard was talking with his newly- 
found Aunt. It seems a prosaic ending for one who never 
had a father. Leonard was a foundling, or next door to it ; 
he attained to the three-and-twenty without knowing where 
he came from, and he then, having just occasion to thank 
Heaven that his father was no more, found — an Aunt. No 
lordly lineage, no rich and childless father brooding over the 
irretrievable past, no accession to wealth and fortune, only a 
widow Aunt, with a small income, only a confirmation of the 
fact stated by the poor dying mother that he was a gentleman 
by birth. Yet the confirmation pleased Leonard as much as 
if he had been proved an earl by birth, and was declared 
the missing heir to boundless acres and a genealogy going 
beyond Noah. 

It was a quiet evening, with no general conversation, but 
always these sub-divisions and sections of two and three. It 
was not late when we separated, and Leonard, leaving Miss 
Rutherford to the care of Cis, came with the Captain and 
myself. 

The Captain had his pipe and glass of grog, and went 


410 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


upstairs, to turn in. We, left alone, sat silent, looking into 
space, at the open window, wrapped in our thoughts. 

Surely, I considered, Leonard is the spoiled child, whom 
nothing can spoil, of Fortune. He has fought his way 
through the briars and brambles of poverty and obscurity, 
the friendly hand of Fate warding off bullets, bayonets, and 
the breath of disease. He has come back to us, bearing the 
Queen’s Commission, a successful hero, where so many 
equally heroic, only less successful, had fallen by the way, 
and now lay dead on the plains of India or in the Cemeteries 
of Scutari and the Crimea — he had the gift of Good Luck — 
la main heureuse. Whatever he tries to do, he does well. To 
be sure, he does it with all his might. What we call Luck, 
a small and degraded word, the ancients called Fate, because 
to them success and failure meant much more than they mean 
now. To lose your high estate ; to be a slave who was once 
Queen of Troy with gallant sons foremost in the fight — that 
was Fate. To return in triumph, leading the captive Kings at 
the chariot- wheel — or to be one of the captive kings, shorn 
of all your former magnificence — Louis Quatorze with the 
wig off — that was Fate. 

To sit in obscurity, to go on living upon a small income, 
to be unknown, when you know yourself as good a man as 
he whose name is in every paper, whose voice is heard at 
every gateway, whom the Lord Mayor delighteth to honour 
— that is Luck. It seems at first to be a thing quite inde- 
pendent of personal virtues, except that you ought not to be 
conspicuously vicious ; Luck was with Leonard. And yet he 
was conspicuously, like all successful men, one who deserved 
his Luck. 

‘‘ What are you thinking of, Laddy ? ” 

I am thinking that of all men on earth you are at this 
moment the happiest.’’ 

‘‘ I think I am, indeed,” he said softly. I have Celia ; 
I have my Commission and my medals : and now I am no 
longer a waif and stray in the world, come from nobody 
knows where, but I have my place with the rest, and can 
talk of my forefathers like any Howard.” 


THE POLE’S VENGEANCE. 


41 1 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE pole’s vengeance. 

I T was past eleven o’clock, but the day had been exciting 
and we could not think of sleep. It was a hot night, 
too, with a little wind, but a full bright moon shining in 
the placid waters of the Milldam. The town was very quiet; 
in the kitchen, a cricket chirped loudly ; in a neighbouring 
garden was baying a foolish dog, driven nervous by the 
moonlight, which, as everybody knows, makes wandering 
spectres, if there are any about, visible to dogs. Frightened 
at length by the sound of his own voice, perhaps awed by a 
more than commonly dreadful ghost, he left off barking and 
retreated to his kennel. Then we were quite quiet, and sat 
face to face in silence. 

My nerves that night were strung to the point at which 
whatever happens brings relief. I felt as if something was 
going to happen. 

So did Leonard. 

Come,” he said, we must either talk or go off to bed. 
I feel as if something oppressive was in the air. Is it 
thunder? No; it is a clear and beautiful night. Let us go 
into the garden.” 

We went to the end of the garden, and stood on the stone 
coping, looking over the broad sheet of water. 

‘‘You are content, Laddy, with the turn things took this 
afternoon ? ” 

Yes,” I said, “content and yet humiliated. Why did I 
ever learn the story of my people ? ” 

“ Poland has no claim upon you,” said Leonard. “ Your 
education — your disposition — everything makes you a man of 
peace. Stay at home and make the name of Pulaski glorious 
in art.” 

“ Who is that, Leonard ? Listen.” 

An uneven step in the quiet street. That was nothing, 
but the step seemed familiar. And it stopped at our door. 


412 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


And then there was rapping, a low rapping, as if the late 
caller wanted to come in confidentially. 

There was a light burning, in the hall, and Leonard, 
snatching it up, opened the door. 

It was Wassielewski. And then I knew, without being 
told, that some dreadful thing had happened. 

Let me come in,” he said. “ I have a thing to say. Are 
you two alone ? ” 

“ Alone,” echoed Leonard. Come in.” 

‘^The soldier,” murmured the old Pole. “Good; he will 
understand.” 

As he stood in the light of the candles I was conscious of 
a curious change that had fallen upon him. His eyes had 
lost their wild and hungry brilliancy; they were soft and 
gentle; but his cheeks were flushed, and though he held 
himself upright, his hands trembled. 

“ I am here to tell you, Ladislas Pulaski, that you are 
avenged upon the murderer of your mother.” 

“ Wassielewski ! You have killed him ! ” 

I knew it without another word from him. The spy was 
dead, and the hand of my poor old friend was red with his 
blood. 

“ Yes I have killed him,” he said gently. 

“Tell us all,” said Leonard. “Courage, Laddy, courage. 
And speak low.” 

“It was in fair fight,” said Wassielewski. “I am no 
murderer. Do not think that I murdered him. We watched 
him, that good and true man from Paris and I, all day. We 
knew that he would escape by train if he could, and so we 
drew lots. One was to go to the station and watch there. 
He was to take a ticket for the same station as the spy, he 
was to telegraph for friends to meet him in London, he was 
to get out with him, he was to follow him, and he was to 
find out where he went. Because, you see, we meant that 
this man should do no more mischief to Poland. The other 
one was to watch the house, and follow the spy whenever he 
came out. 

“ The lot fell to me to watch the house. The other man 


THE POLE^S VENGEANCE. 


413 


went to the railway station. But the spy will send no more 
intelligence to St. Petersburg. He lies dead in a meadow 
beneath the town walls. I killed him there.” 

He spoke quite calmly, and as if he was merely stating a 
fact which we had every reason to expect. There was, how- 
ever, no trace of bravado in his tone. 

I watched outside, from a window in a house opposite 
where they know me, from four o’clock till ten. Six hours. 
But I was not impatient, because I knew that the Lord had 
delivered him into my hands. After I thought things over, 
I perceived clearly that it was I, and not you, Ladislas, who 
was to avenge your mother. So I waited with patience, and, 
as one must guard against every accident, I even ate and 
drank. 

‘‘ It is light, now, till nine, and there is light enough to 
see across the street till past ten. Soon after sunset I saw 
that he had lit a lamp, and was destroying papers. When 
he had gone through all the papers, he began to pack a trunk. 
I saw him put up his clothes ; I saw him write an address 
on a card ; and then — a quarter before ten was striking from 
St. John’s Church — he took that long cloak of his which you 
know, and put out the gas. There is a night train at half- 
past ten. He was going to take it, and to send for his boxes 
afterwards. So I went out after him. 

‘‘When he saw me, which he did at once, because he 
turned at the sound of footsteps, he stopped and waited for 
me. ‘You propose murdering me,’ he said. I told him 
that he was quite mistaken, and that, if he had used his 
opportunities of knowing the Poles better, he would under- 
stand that Poles never murder people at all — having con- 
tracted a horror of murder from the contemplation of such 
murders as those of Roman and Claudia Pulaski. 

“ ‘ What do you want with me, then ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ I want to fight you,’ I said. ‘ I intend to fight you.* 

“He laughed at first, and asked me if I thought him 
such a fool as to fight with a mad Polish exile — he, a Russian 
ofiicial. 

“ Then I told him that he should not escape a duel ; that 


414 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


if he were to call the police, it would be of no use, because 
others were waiting for him ; that if he escaped the town, 
the telegraph had sent messages to London, and he would 
meet the Poles on arriving there; and if he tried to fly 
anywhere else, he would be watched, traced, and made to 
flght then. 

‘ Madman ! ’ he said, ^ what are we to flght with ?’ 

Then I showed him two long knives, which I have had 
for years, never thinking what a use I should put them to. 
Knives like short swords, only without the hilt. And I told 
him he should have his choice. But flght he must. 

‘‘ He hesitated, considering. He saw very well that what 
I offered him was his best chance. Man for man. If he 
killed me, he would probably get away somehow. My 
comrade was at the station, and might be eluded. Then he 
was younger and stronger than I. 

‘ You understand,’ I said, ‘ the duel is to be a outrance. 
I shall kill you, unless you kill me flrst.’ 

‘ Where are we to flght, madman ? ’ he asked. 

“ I told him of a place I knew of, a meadow surrounded 
with trees, beneath the town wall. He knew it, too, and 
nodded. 

‘‘^You are younger,’ I said. ‘You have that advantage; 
on the other hand, you have a bad cause, and I a good one. 
You will fight your best, but you have to fight two, not one 
— Roman Pulaski as well as Wassielewski. One is dead, 
and it is hard to fight a dead man.’ He laughed ; he was 
no coward, that man. No, no; I never said that the 
Muscovites are cowards ; but it is not well to laugh at dead 
men. The dead arm may still strike. He was no coward; 
he was brave, like all his countrymen. But he laughed at the 
dead; he said he was ready to fight a dozen dead Poles. ‘ But 
as for you, a mad old patriot and fool, I will not fight you. 
Stand out of my path.’ ‘ Do you wish to fight in the street ? ^ 
I asked him. ‘ Here is your knife ; here is mine. For fight 
you shall.’ I suppose he saw that it was of no use to refuse, 
for he took the knife and cursed me. He could curse very 
well, that man. I said nothing, because the Lord had 


THE POLE’S VENGEANCE. 


415 


delivered him into my hand, and it is not good to begin a 
fight with cursing. So I walked beside him, feeling the 
point of my knife — at his left hand, because the Muscovite 
spies are treacherous, and he might have tried to stab me 
had I been on the other side. One has to be careful with 
such men as that.” 

‘‘I think, Wassielewski,” said Leonard, ‘Hhat you had 
better sit down and rest. This talk is too much for you.” 

The old man was swaying backwards and forwards, fling- 
ing about his arms, acting the scene, imitating his enemy’s 
voice and gestures, so that one could picture the big, 
ponderous-looking spy staring straight in the Pole’s face 
in his insolent, cynical, and contemptuous way. But his 
voice grew shaky, and his lips were parched. 

Leonard poured out a glass of spirits and water, which he 
drank greedily. 

Aha ! ” he cried, “ I forgot that I was thirsty. Now I 
can go on.” 

‘‘Laddy,” said Leonard, don’t stare at him with that 
scared face. Courage, dear boy. AVait till wo come to the 
end. Keep your imagination quiet now, above all times. If 
you are ready, Wassielewski, to go on ” 

‘‘ Yes, I am ready. Oh ! yes. Quite ready. 

‘‘ It is a beautiful moonlight night. Almost like a moon- 
light night in Poland. I thought of the night marches we 
used to have in 1833, singing as we went through the woods 
— those were the times for the Poles, when we met the 
enemy in the morning, and cut him off before he was awake. 
And then I thought of the moonlight nights — ah ! how 
many years ago — flfty years and more, when Napoleon 
promised to free Poland, and all of us flocked to his army — 
and the merry days when we danced all night long with the 
Polish girls, long before the Muscovite forbade them to wear 
their own dress, and stopped their dancing altogether. The 
more I thought of these things, the more happy I felt to be 
walking side by side with the spy. Because I knew — oh ! 
yes, I knew very well indeed — that I was going to kill him. 

And as I was back in Poland I thought of other things. 


4i6 


BY CELIACS AKBOUR. 


It is a good thing that one can think so quickly. I was with 
the rebels again. I had in my hands the very gun which 
the Lady Claudia gave me. I was creeping in the under- 
wood towards a Russian outpost ; I was sentinel all night 
in the insurgents camp ; I was fighting behind a barricade ; 
I was following Roman Pulaski in a charge ; I was running 
after the carts in which the children were being carried 
away ; I was crying over the dead body of Claudia, with 
little Ladislas in my arms — I saw it all — all my past life, 
as well as I see you, Ladislas, and you, Leonard Copleston, 
before me at this minute. It was a sign to me that I was 
to gain some signal and great honour. And no honour 
could be so great to me as the killing of that spy. Be- 
cause I knew very well indeed that I was certain to kill 
him. 

‘^Then a strange thing happened. I saw that on the 
other side of the spy, marching silently, was your dead 
father, Roman Pulaski. His face was stern and hard, not 
like the happy face he wore when he married his wife, 
when he tossed his child, and when he set off to fight the 
Russians, but stern and hard. He meant that justice should 
be done. There was the memory of his long march to Siberia 
in his look, and the years of misery in the mine. He was 
worn and haggard, and his hair was grey, though his step 
was firm. Roman Pulaski was going to fight for me. 
It seemed unfair for the man between us, but it was 
j ustice. 

‘‘At my right was Lady Claudia. She took no notice 
of the spy who was going to be killed, not the least notice, 
because he was beneath her contempt. But she whispered 
in my ears gracious words, ‘ Faithful Wassielewski ! brave 
old servant ! this one battle over, and your work is done. 
Courage and patience. You shall see me again before long, 
when this man is killed.’ 

“We marched in silence, we four, with the steps of two, 
side by side along the deserted streets. No one met us, the 
patrols were all gone back to their barracks, and no police- 
man passed us. It would have astonished a policeman to 


THE POLE’S VENGEANCE. 


417 


see four persons walking together, and two of them dead. 
When we got to the place where we were to fight — you 
know it well, Ladislas. It is where you and the lady walk 
sometimes, and sit among the flowers — we got over the gate 
side by side, and walked across the grass.” 

Good Heavens! The man, then, was lying dead among 
the buttercups in our own meadow under Celia’s Arbour, 
the place where we had talked, played, and sauntered so 
many, many times, so many years. 

He said nothing, but kept his eyes on me — he did not 
seem to take any notice of Roman Pulaski — while he threw 
off his cloak and hat. It is a full moon, and the meadow 
was as light almost as day. He chose his own position, 
where the moonshine fell full upon my face, so that it might 
blind my eyes. Fool ! As if it mattered while Roman 
Pulaski was by my side. I laughed at his madness, and 
took the place he left for me. The Lady Claudia remained 
behind. It was not for her to watch the fight. She stood 
beneath the trees, where I saw her white robes fluttering in 
the breeze. You cannot expect a saint in Heaven to look 
at the punishment of a spy. 

“ Foot to foot, and in each right hand a knife. He fought 
well, he sprang upon me like a lion, he struck at me here, 
there, everywhere, but he struck at me in vain, because all 
his blows were warded off. He was a brave man, but he 
fought against the dead. All the time he cursed and swore 
at me for a madman, a mad old Pole, a mad old lunatic, 
everything that was mad. But I never answered, watching 
his knife, and waiting my chance. And close beside me 
stood Roman Pulaski, tall and strong as in life, but his face 
was hard and stern. 

And then the chance came, and he fell. My knife was 
plunged to the handle in his heart. I had no scratch upon 
me, no hurt or wound of any kind. And when he fell I 
thought of Lady Claudia’s words, ^ Only this one battle left, 
and your work is done.’ I am past seventy years of age. 
I fear I shall kill no more spies. 

‘‘I looked at him as he lay on the grass. There was a 


4i8 


BY CELIA’S AEBOUR. 


pool of blood, tbe knife was in his heart, and he was quite 
dead. And then I came away. 

Before me strode Roman Pulaski, and presently he joined 
the Lady Claudia. She waved her hand to me, and they 
both went out of sight hand in hand. 

Then I thought I would come here and tell you, Ladislas, 
that your enemy is dead. He can do you no more harm and 
Poland no more harm. The Czar has one spy the less.” 

He ended his story which he told throughout with a quiet 
and suppressed vehemence, and with the exultation of one 
who has done a noble and a brilliant action. Much brooding 
and a solitaiy life had driven him mad. He could see no 
cause for regret or repentance ; he had slain his enemy in 
fair fight, he was the instrument of Providential retribution, 
he obeyed the behests of his dead mistress, and he had no 
doubt whatever that the phantoms of his disordered brain 
were real visitants from the realms of the upper world. 

Real visitants ! They were real to me while I listened, 
with trembling lips, to his story. I felt the great horror 
which, as they tell, falls always upon those who see, or 
think that they see, the spirits of the dead. It was as if in 
the room with Wassielewski were those sacred shades whom 
I longed but dreaded to look upon. And for the moment the 
horror of the murder, the image of the dead man lying on 
his back in the long grass, were lost in the eagerness of 
that desire that they would show themselves to me as they 
showed themselves to their old servant, and speak to me as 
they spoke to him. They never came, they never spoke, no 
voice or whisper from the grave has come to me, nor will 
come. And yet I doubt not that some time I shall see 
them both in earthly beauty glorified, and with earthly love 
transformed into heavenly love. 

‘‘That will be best. She said my work was done. In 
Poland I shall find a grave near hers. I know where she 
lies beside the road, because I buried her. I will seek out 
the spot and die there too. My work is done.” 

Leonard listened gravely. He had not interrupted him, 
except to ask for the knife. Now he looked at me with a 


AN UNEXPECTED FEIEND. 


419 


pitying despair on his face. He could do nothing. The 
poor old man would be tried for murder. And he was 
quite mad. 

Meantime Wassielewski sat down and rested. The exul- 
tation was dying out in his brain, and he looked wearied. 

And as we asked each other in despairing looks, Leonard 
and I, what to do next, we were startled by a step outside. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” I cried. Who is that ? ” 

Wassielewski had left the door open. The steps came 
into the hall ; then we heard the street door closed gently. 
And then our own door opened slowly, and a muffled voice, 
hoarse and thick, whispered through the opening — 

All friends here ? ” 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. 


jL friends here ? ” 



iX Leonard sprang to the door and threw it open. 
In the doorway stood — good Heavens ! was it Herr Raumer 
himself, wrapped' in his long cloak which fell to his heels, 
and was thrown over his left shoulder? — a figure the same 
height as the spy, and having a black felt hat pulled for- 
ward over his face. 

The spy’s cloak,” said Wassielewski quietly, and without 
the least symptom of alarm or discomposure, and his hat. 
But I killed him.” 

The figure cautiously removed the hat. 

That action disclosed a head covered with short, thick, 
and stubbly red hair, a face whose expression was one of 
cunning, impudence, and anxiety all combined : such a face 
as you may meet on the tramp along country roads, one 
that glances upwards at you as you pass the owner supine 
in the shade, or that you may see sitting outside a village 
beershop, or where the more adventurous class of tramps, 
vagrants, and gipsies most resort. Not the thin hatchet 
face, with receding forehead and protruding lips, which 


420 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


belongs to the lowest class of London habitual criminals, 
the face of a class whose children will be cHtins^ the face 
which is the result of many generations of neglect, over- 
crowding, and vice. This was the face of a strong and 
healthy man, and yet the face of a sturdy rogue. And in 
removing the hat, the fellow looked round with assurance 
and nodded cheerfully to Wassielewski. 

His cloak,” said Wassielewski, pointing to the garment, 
and his hat. But it was I who killed him.” 

Right you are, guv nor,” responded our new visitor 
cheerfully. His cloak it is. Likewise, his hat it is. And 
I see you a-killing of him. But don’t you be frightened, 
mate. All friends here ? ” 

He turned his impudent face to us, as if we were a pair 
of accomplices. 

About the putting of that chap” — he jerked his finger 
over his shoulder — “ out o’ the way, I don’t want to say 
nothink disagreeable. There’s lots as ought to be put out 
o’ the way, only there’s the scraggiri’ after it — an’ I do hope, 
guvnor, as you won’t be scragged. Bless you, there’s a 
many gets off, on’y the papers don’t say nothink about it. 
And don’t you frighten yourselves, young gents both. I’ve 
got a word to say as’ll please all parties, give me time to 
say it. Lord help you, I feel like a pal a’ready to this old 
guv nor here — and do you think Pd split upon a pal ? 
Gar ! ” — he made a gesture indicative of contempt for those 
who split on pals — “ and if you could oblige me with a drop 
o’ somethink to drink an’ a bite of supper, and p’raps a 
mouthful o’ baccy, I could say that word in a more friendly 
way. Lord ! let’s all be friends.” 

He sat down at the table, and, throwing ofi* the cloak, dis- 
closed the uniform of a convict. 

Things are getting mighty pleasant,” said Leonard. 
‘‘ Pray, are there any more of you outside ? Who is going 
to turn np next ? ” 

Ho one, noble Cap’en. No one — I’m by myself, and I 
wish to remain as such. There ain’t ro more of us — and we 
don’t want no more. As you see, a convict I am and a 


AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. 


421 


convict IVe been for the best part of a twelvemonth, working 
in that blamed Dockyard of yours. Is that rum in the 
decanter ? ” — the Captain’s spirit-case, in fact, stood on the 
sideboard, with a ham placed there for his supper, and not 
removed. Give me a drop, my noble Cap’en, I haven’t 
tasted rum for — not too much water — Lord ! it’s delicious,” 
he gasped, as he drank off half a tumblerful, which Leonard 
gave him. Another glass ! And is that ham ? I’ve really 
got somethink important to tell^ — ^jest a morsel of that ham. 
There’s no ham to be got in quod. Ham — and rum — 
Moses ! what a chance ! ” 

We gave him the ham and a plate, and contained our 
impatience while he sat down and made a supper. He 
devoured hurriedly, and yet took a long time, because he 
devoured an immense quantity. Either Nature had gifted 
him with a profound appetite, or the diet of the hulks was 
meagre. In either case, I never saw a man put away such 
an enormous quantity of provisions at one time. He wolfed 
the meat as if he had never tasted meat before, and drank as 
much rum-and- water as Leonard would give him. It was 
like a horrible nightmare to see that man calmly devouring 
his food while we waited his completion of his meal, as if a 
homicide was a matter that could wait to be talked about till 
things of greater importance, such a supper, were first dis- 
cussed. But his appearance served one purpose. It helped 
to calm one’s nerves after the first shock of Wassielewski’s 
story. The old man sat silent and steady, looking at the 
stranger with a little curiosity. He finished at length, and 
then, taking one of the Captain’s pipes without asking leave, 
filled it with tobacco, lit it, and began to smoke and talk 
in an easy, companionable way. 

Yes,” he said complacently, I’m a convict. One-and- 
twenty years I got. And if I’m caught, it will be a life 
sentence, I dessay — with a flogging. I’ve had nearly a year, 
and might have got out six months ago, but it was a pity 
not to let the Chaplain have a chance. Pro-fesh burglar. 
Cracker of cribs. That’s what I am. Bagger of swag. 
That is my calling — it hath bin.” I think he persuaded 


422 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR 


himself that he was quoting from the poets, because he 
repeated the line, ‘ That is my calling — it hath bin/ I was 
lagged last summer for a little business in the country, and 
came down here with a few other gentlemen, also in mis- 
fortune, to work out the one-and-twenty years. 

One-and-twenty years ! What do they think of it, them 
Beaks and the Wigs? One and-twenty years! It drops 
out as glib as — as — this here rum and water. Home they 
goes to their port wine and their sherry wine, and off we 
goes to the skilly and water. One-and-twenty years I Why 
don’t they take and hang a man at once? Well — see here, 
now, there ain’t a crib, not one solitary crib you can pint to 
in this blessed world, that I can’t crack. And so I’ve cracked 
even that convict crib that they thought to make so precious 
tight. Cracked it, I did, like — like — a egg; and here I am. 
First, aboard a hulk. That’s poor work, because you’ve got 
to swim ashore when you do get out, and when you are 
ashore what’s a man worth in wet clothes ? Besides, I can’t 
swim. If everybody knew what was cornin’ in the future, 
everybody’ ud learn to swim. As long as I was aboard that 
hulk I was sad. Seemed as if a fellow hadn’t got a chance. 
When we come ashore, I began to pick up my spirits, looked 
all about, and I made up my little plan at wunst, and after a 
month or two — picking up a nail here and a nail there, and 
havin’ the use of my fingers, as one may say, and not being 
altogether a bloomin’ idiot — why — here I am.” 

Yes,” said Leonard, ‘‘ you certainly are here. But as we 
don’t care about the society of burglars and escaped convicts, 
perhaps you will go on to say what you have to say, and 
relieve us of your company.” 

Quite right, my noble lord,” replied the burglarious pro- 
fessor cheerfully. Quite right, and just what I should have 
expected of such an out-an’-out tip-top swell as you. It ain’t 
the society you’re accustomed to, is it ? And yet you can’t, 
I should say, as a general rule, be fond of entertainin’ 
slaughterers and killerers, can you ? Now what I’ve got to 
say is just this here. I see the whole fight from the beginnin’ to 
the end. Where was I ? Curled up in the shade I was, behind 


AN UNEXPECTED FEIEND. 


423 


a tree, wishing that there moon’’ — here he used a strong 
adjective, which, with other strong adjectives, I suppress 
even though their absence detracts from the fidelity of the 
story and the splendour of the style — would hide her face 
behind a cloud. Then a fellow might ha’ had a chance. 
There is a ’ouse in this town which I knows of, where I’d a 
bin taken in and kep’ secret and comfortable for a bit, per- 
haps — naturally I wanted to get to that ’ouse. A moonlight 
night and the month o’ June, without a atom of real dark. 
Ah ! give me a good December night, as black as your hat, 
and a sweet crib to crack in the country, with on’y a woman 
or two in the place. Dear me ! — Well, gents both, as I was 
a-lying there, wishin’, as I said — I see a brace o’ men get 
over the gate and make for the middle of the field.” 

Three men,” said Wassielewski, and a lady. Two were 
spirits.” 

Now, don’t you interrupt, mate. I know nothink about 
spirits. I ses to myself, ‘ What’s up ? ’ I ses. ’Cause some- 
think was bound to be up when two men gets into a field a’ 
midnight and stand face to face in the moonlight. ‘ It can’t 
be,’ I ses, ‘ that they’re looking after Stepney Bob ’ — that’s 
me, gents both, ’cos he ain’t missed yet, and won’t be missed 
before five o’clock in the morning. So I concluded to keep 
quiet and see. Next moment, one of ’em chucks his hat and 
cloak — this hat and this cloak — on the grass, and then I see 
the two knives flash in the moonlight, and the fight began. 
One was a tall thin man with long white hair — that was 
you, mate — and t’ other was a tall stout man with short 
white hair. That’s the dead un — him as owned this cloak 
and this hat. 

1 have seen ’em fight at the Whitechapel Theayter — one, 
two, three, give and take, while the music plays — and I don’t 
suppose there’s a properer way of getting through a long 
evening than the gallery of that ’ouse when there’s a good 
fight in’ piece on. But such a fight as this here I never see 
before on no boards whatsumever. For one,' he began to 
cuss and swear, and danced about flourishing his knife, 
making lunges — like that” — the gentleman illustrated his 


4U 


BY CELIA’S ARBOtJll. 


narrative with a supper knife — ^^and never managed to hit 
the t’other at all. Eeg’Iar wild he looked. Couldn’t fight 
proper for rage. Lor’ ! put such a chap as that before Ben 
Gaunt, and where’d he be in a pig’s whisper ? Never done 
no mischief with /iis knife. The t’other, this here old cove 
— there now, it was a real treat to see him. The moon was 
in his face so as I should have thought it blinded him ; but 
he took no notice ; only looked his man straight in the eyes 
— that’s the trick that does it — never said ne’er a word, and 
kept on parryin’ them lunges quiet and beautiful — like this” 
— more illustration with the knife. 

‘‘ A matter of six minutes it might have lasted, that fight, 
or perhaps ten, because you don’t count the time when you’re 
lookin’ at a fight. And then all of a sudden like, I see this 
same old cove put out his fist with the knife in it — and the 
t’other falls back upon the grass. That was all, wasn’t it, 
mate ? He got up once on his arm, but he fell back again. 
And he was dead, wasn’t he, mate ? ” 

He stopped to take breath and another pull of the rum- 
and- water. 

Another dollop o’ that cold ham on the sideboard, little 
gunner, would be very grateful, it would indeed, after the 
patter. Thank ye kindly. Now I’m better.” 

He actually devoured another plateful of ham before he 
would go on again. 

‘^Well, what I came for to say is this here. After the 
t’other un rolled over I see the old cock here walk up and 
down the meadow slow, as if he was thinkin’ what to do 
next. ‘Why don’t he bolt?’ I ses. ‘Why don’t he clear 
his pockets ? ’ ” 

“ 1 was walking to the gate with Eoman Pulaski,” explained 
Wassielewski. 

“ No — not a bit — never went near his pockets. He goes 
on walkin’ up and w'alkin’ down mutterin’ with his lips. 
Presently he makes for the palin’s. I instantly begins to 
crawl through the gi ass. When he got over the rails and 
walked away I was free to look after the t’other. Quite dead 
he was, dead as a door-nail.” 


AN UNEXPi::CTED FEIEND. 


425 

^‘The Lord delivered him into my hands,” said Wassie- 
lewski. 

‘‘ And then I saw what a blessed Providential go it was 
for me,” the convict went on. First I picked up his cloak, 
this most beautiful cloak, which you see goes right down to 
my heels, and covers up the uniform lovely. Then I picked 
up this here hat, which is a tile as good as new, and fits me 
like as if it was made for my head and not for his’n. A 
better tile I never s wagged. Then I remembered that, if I 
had a little money, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. So I searched 
his pockets. There was a purse and there was a lot of letters 
and papers. I left the letters and I opened the purse. 
Twelve golden sovereigns and some notes — for I won’t deceive 
you, gents both. What d ye think I did ? I ses to myself, 

‘ If they bring it in murder ag’in the old un, they shan t 
bring it in robbery too, ’cos robbery is one thing and murder’s 
another. These two things ought^ never to be combined.’ 
I ought to know, ’cos I’ve cracked cribs since I was big 
enough to walk, and might ha’ murdered dozens of innocent 
and confiding women asleep in their beds. But I never did. 
No, never. So I takes all the sovereigns in the purse, and 
in his waistcoat pocket I leaves three or four shillin’s, and I 
leaves all the rest, the fiimsies, a lovely gold watch, a sweet 
chain, and a diamond ring. It went to my ’art not to have 
’em but I thought of this jolly old game rooster, and I left 
’em.” 

‘‘ Chivalry,” said Leonard, is always a pleasant thing to 
meet with, even — go on, most excellent burglar.” 

The knife was in him, and his own knife was in his 
hand. What do you think I done next ? I takes the knife 
out of the wound, and sticks it in his hand, ’stead of his own. 
And I’ve brought along his own, and here it is. 

He laid the knife upon the table — it was a long pointed 
knife, like a stiletto — of foreign shape and make. I did not 
ask Wassielewski if it was his, but gave it to Leonard. 

One more thing,” this philanthropist went on, ‘‘ one more 
thing I done. There were marks of feet, and the grass was 
trampled. So I dragged him away, and laid him under the 


426 


BV CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


trees at the side of the field. They’ll never think of looking^ 
in the middle and finding marks of a fight. After all that", 
I shouldn’t wonder— I rally shouldn’t — if they brought in 
a Fellar D. 0. But my advice to you, a game old cock as 
deserves to get off and die in the sheets, a laughin’ at ’em 
all, is this : Whatever the werdect, you up and leg it, and 
then bring in a alibi. You ain’t the sort to get off in a 
hurry; you walked so precious slow down the street that I 
had time to do all that and catch you up before ever you got 
out o’ sight. I dodged yer all the way here, and sneaked in 
after you. ’Cos, I ses, I’d like to let him sleep comfortable 
if I could, ses I.” 

^ After all, one could not but feel grateful to this enthu- 
siastic lover of a fight, in spite of the horrible circumstances 
of the case, and the tragedy which had just taken place. 
Somehow its outlines looked less horrible told by this gaol- 
bird than when Wassielewski related the story. 

And now 1 11 go, he said, getting up and wrapping his 
cloak about him; “I can tramp it up to London, and°hide 
all day somewheres. No one won’t suspect Stepney Bob 
beneath this milingtary cloak and this out-an-out tile. Once 
back in W^hitechapel, X know a place or two where they 
won’t nab me for a spell I don’t think, and p’r’aps I’ll step 
it altogether. And then you’ll maybe hear of me cracking 
cribs for the Americans. Good-night, gents both. Goodt 
night, matey. Don’t ye be down on your luck. But take 
my advice and leg it.” 

Stay, said Jjeonard. “ It’s a delicate thing interfering 
with your arrangements, and one’s actions might be mis- 
understood, but if I might advise ” 

“ Go on, guv’ner.” 

“ I would suggest that if you are not missed you will not 
be suspected, and a first-class traveller to London by the 
mail train at one-thirty, disguised, as you say, in that 
excellent cloak, would have a better chance of reaching 
Whitechapel safely than a tramp.” 

Stepney Bob was struck with the suggestion. 

“That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “The train ’ud be 


AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. 427 

in by four, and T shan’t be missed till five. And in case 
o’ accidents, I suppose” — ^he looked hard at Wassielewski — 
“ 1 suppose that there ain’t no one here who’d be so generous 
and so werry thoughtful as to step half a mile out o’ the 
town and take a pair o’ shears, and nip they (strong 
adjectived) telegraph wires. Now, that ’ud be a job worth 
braggin’ about. Come, now, they’d make a song out o’ that 
job, I’d bet a trifle, and you’d be sung up and down the 
streets ; all Whitechapel should ring with it, and the Dials 
too, and Ratcliffe Highway. Think o’ that, mate.” 

No one volunteered to cut the telegraph wires, and after a 
little more rum-and-water. Stepney Bob decided on going, 
and disappeared after a cautious inspection of the street. 

‘^It would read sweetly in the paper, wouldn’t it,” said 
Leonard, ‘‘ how Captain Copleston and Ladislas Pulaski 
spent the night in assisting the escape of a convicted burglar, 
known in the profession as Stepney Bob — however ” 

‘‘ And what will you do, Wassielewski?” 

I shall do nothing. My work is over. I shall start for 
Poland — to-morrow. Ladislas Pulaski, if \ou marry and 
have children, teach them always that they are Poles. I 
was wrong in trying to get you with us. I see now that I 
was wrong. You will never fight for Poland. Another life 
is yours. God bless it for you — for the dear memory of your 
mother.” 

He laid his hand upon my head, rested it there for a few 
moments, and then went away, walking slowly and heavily, 
as if wearied with the weight of his life’s work. 

Bear up, Laddy,” said Leonard. ‘‘ Come — be a man — 
poor old Wassielewski is not responsible for his actions. Go 
to bed, and to-morrow we will act.” 

I feel somehow as if the blood of that man was on my 
head, Leonard. It is through me that he was detected.” 

Some people would say that the finger of Fate was in it, 
Laddy — I say that it is a fitting end to a life of spying, 
watching, and informing. I wish all secret service agents 
could be got rid of in a similar way. Meantime, we must 
wait for to-morrow — I must think what we had better do.” 


428 


BY CELIACS ARBOUB. 


“I cannot go upstairs, Leonard. I feel as if that dead 
body were lying in my room, waiting for me. Do not leave 
me to-night.” 

I could not bear to be alone. My nerves were like cords 
tiugliug and vibrating. I was in the presence of death and 
the other world. My brain was reeling. 

Leonard carried me upstairs, I think, and laid me on the 
bed, when presently, while he sat beside me, as if I was 
a sick girl, I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed that 
Wassielewski and I were trudging together along a road 
which I knew to be in Poland, and that before us stood our 
home — a stately mansion — and on the steps were Eoman 
and Claudia Pulaski, holding out arms of welcome. And 
as I looked, Wassielewski suddenly left me, and I was alone. 
But he had joined the other two, and now all three were 
standing together waiting for me. Whenever, now, I dream 
of the past or of that fatal day, it is to see those three wait- 
ing still for me to join them. 


CHAPTEE XLIX. 

A coroner’s inquest. 

I T is a shame for a man to have to confess his own weak- 
ness ; but the truth has to be told. I broke down at 
this point, and lay on the bed to which Leonard carried me 
for three weeks, in delirium. I suppose the great horror 
and shock of the evening, following on the nervous agitation 
of the preceding three days, was more than my brain could 
l^ear. At any rate, I had a bad time for the next fortnight 
or so, during which things went on without my being inte- 
rested in them. Could one remember what delirium means, 
a chapter might be written — but one would need to be De 
Quincey to write it. First the chest seems to expand, and 
then the head to swell out and become of gigantic size. 
Then you lay your hands upon the forehead to make sure 
that it has not been carried somewhere else. Then you grow 
big all over, hands and feet and limbs. Then you lose all 


A CORONEB’S INQUEST. 


429 


sense of weight, and seem to be flying in the air. And then, 
just as you are beginning to feel uncomfortable, your mind 
runs away from your control : things grotesque, things 
splendid, things absurd, things of the past, things from 
books, wild imaginations crowd the brain, and move before 
the eyes like a real pageant of living creatures. Nothing 
astonishes, nothing seems strange ; there is no sense of 
incongruity ; and when you recover, all is forgotten but the 
genera] impression of grotesque unreality. They told me 
afterwards what had happened. 

They discovered, early in the morning, two things. First, 
that a convict had escaped, and secondly, that a dead man 
was lying in the meadow beneath the walls. 

At first they connected the two things, but subsequent 
inquiry led them to believe that the convict had nothing to 
do with the homicide. 

As soon as Leonard could leave me with the Captain he 
sought the old Pole. Wassielewski’s single room was on 
the second floor in one of the crowded streets near Victory 
Row. The sailors’ wives were all gathered about their doors, 
though the rain was falling heavily, talking of the discovery 
of the dead body, and wondering whether it was a murder 
or only a suicide. Most of them knew Leonard as an old 
inhabitant of the qiiartiei\ and saluted him kindly as Gentle- 
man Jack, a name which they learned from their husbands’ 
friends, the vsoldiers. 

Leonard asked if the old man had been seen that morning. 
He had not, it was too early in the morning. It was his 
custom to remain in his room until noon, unless he was 
engaged to play for a paid-off crew. At twelve he descended, 
and would seldom return home till the evening. Leonard 
would find him in his room. 

He mounted the stairs, and knocked. There was no 
answer. He knocked again. Again there was no answer. 
Could he have gone off already, on his way to Poland, acting 
on the burglar’s advice ? 

Leonard went down the stairs again, and asked the mistress 
of the house. No, he had not gone out. He came home 


430 


BV CELIA’S ABBOtTR 


late, she said, perhaps as late as twelve, because she must 
have been in bed some time, and his footsteps woke her ; 
but she had been up since six, and he certainly had not 
come down stairs. 

She came up with Leonard this time, and they both 
knocked. 

Then they called him by his name. 

All was still and silent. 

Leonard leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed. 
The bolt came away from the rotten wood, and the door 
fell open. 

Wassielewski was kneeling by the bedside. In his hands 
was the miniature of my mother, and his lips were pressed 
closely to it. But the lips were as hard and as cold as 
the hands that held the cross, for the poor old man was 
dead. 

He was not undressed. He died in his devotions, perhaps 
immediately after he came home. Redhanded with the 
blood of the spy, he went unrepentant to the after world. 
The two souls, side by side, departed almost together. 

This event, as Leonard said, simplified matters amazingly. 
It was no longer necessary for him to consider how the old 
man ought to give himself up to justice. It seemed pretty 
clear that the convict would hold his tongue, even if he got 
caught, while if he got away he would certainly tell nothing. 
On the other hand, if he did tell, it would be time enough 
to reveal the real truth. There was excuse, at any rate, 
in the plea that, the old Pole being dead, nothing could be 
gained by letting the world know that, like Lamech, he had 
slain a man. 

The inquest on Wassielewski was very short. He had 
been found dead, he was an aged man, the doctor certified 
that the cause of death was disease of the heart, the verdict 
was given in accordance with the evidence, and the poor 
old man was buried with the rites of his own Church. 

By common consent of the few Poles who remained in 
the town, Leonard took possession for me of the few effects 
which the old man left. There were two or three weapons, 


A CORONER’S INQUEST. 


431 


relics of the last struggle, and his violin. We looked 
through the drawers and cupboard, but there were only a 
few papers containing lists of names and plans of campaigns. 
These were burnt to prevent accidents. Also there was a 
bag full of sovereigns — seventy or eighty — which he had 
put together in readiness for a start at a moment’s notice. 
With the Captain’s consent, and by his advice, I subse- 
quently distributed the legacy among his fellow countrymen, 
who all came to the funeral of the most determined patriot 
that ever Poland produced. 

A most important inquest was that held on the same day 
upon the body of Herr Kaumer. 

Ferdinand Brambler was, of course, present, taking notes 
wdth the air of one who has got hold of a good thing and 
means to make the most of it. Also he was himself con- 
scious of an accession of importance, for was not the deceased 
a lodger in his brother Augustus’s house ? 

They first called the policeman who had found the body. 

He deposed that early in the morning, at half-pasfc four, 
he took the walk under the walls in the course of his beat, 
that he saw lying on the grass just within the meadow the 
body of a man. The man was dressed, but without a hat. 
Money was in his pocket — somehow the statement of Stepney 
Bob and that of the policeman did not exactly tally, and 
either the burglar helped himself to more than he confessed, 
or the policeman took advantage of the situation and took 
two notes, at least, on his own account — that the deceased 
bad upon him also a watch and chain and a diamond ring, 
those, namely, that lay on the table. 

A suspicious juror — there is always, I believe, a suspicious 
juror — here requested to see the watch and chain, which he 
inspected minutely. The deceased lay, the policeman went 
on, as if he had fallen backwards after the blow was inflicted, 
and never moved again. The knife, which was that lying 
on the table, was of foreign make, such as a German gentle- 
man might have carried. Being asked if he thought it was 
a murder, he said that there were no marks of violence or 
trampling in the grass, that, as he had not been robbed, he 


432 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


did not see why it should have been a murder. That from 
the knife being held tight in the right hand he thought it 
was suicide. 

Then the doctor was called, the same doctor who gave 
evidence in the case of Wassielewski. He stated that the 
death had been caused by a deep wound which punctured 
right through the heart, that the death must have been 
instantaneous; that although such a wound would require 
the greatest determination, it was quite possible for a man 
to inflict it upon himself ; that the right hand tightly held 
a knife covered with blood, and that the wound, in his 
opinion, was undoubtedly inflicted by that knife, the one 
before the jury. 

The next witness was Mr. George Tyrrell, the Mayor of 
the Borough. He deposed that Herr Carl Raumer and 
himself were on friendly and intimate terms : that he had 
the management of his affairs ; that he knew nothing 
whatever of his family connections in Germany ; that a 
short time previously the Herr had instructed him to 
realise ceita n investments, which had been done as he 
requested ; that he had last seen the deceased on the 
morning of his death, when nothing whatever passed 
which could warrant a belief that he was about to commit 
suicide ; that, on the contrary, he stated he was about to 
go away to the Continent, there to take up his permanent 
residence. But, on the other hand, he had received a note 
in the evening which struck him as singular. This note 
he would read. It was short, and was as follows : — 

‘‘Dear Tyrrell, — I find that my departure will take 
place earlier than I intended. I wished to see you again ; 
I shall, however, go this night and for ever. My affairs 
are all settled. I wish, as you will never see me again, 
that you will take care of Ladislas Pulaski. Do not let the 
boy be persuaded ever to go to Poland. That is my solemn 
advice to him. — Yours, C. R.” 

He said that on the receipt of the letter he thought at 


A COEONER^S INQUEST. 


433 


first of going round, but as the hour was late he refrained, 
to his present great regret. The letter was brought by 
a child, daughter of his clerk, Augustus Brambler, in whose 
house Herr Raumer lodged. 

The Coroner asked if any of the jury wished to put any 
questions to His Worship the Mayor. The suspicious juror 
wished to ask the Mayor if he was quite certain about the 
handwriting. The Mayor had no doubt whatever of the letter 
being in his old friend’s writing. 

Then Charlotte Brambler was called. The report in the 
paper of the following Saturday, with which, of course, 
Ferdinand Brambler had nothing to do, spoke of her as a 
most intelligent, straightforward witness, who gave her 
evidence clearly and to the point. Her face,” the report 
went on, “ is singularly attractive, and her appearance and 
demeanour elicted universal respect and admiration. She is, 
we understand, the eldest, not the second daughter, as re- 
ported, of Mr. Augustus Brambler, long and honourably 
connected with the Legal interests of the Borough.” 

Little Forty- four did give her evidence very well. She 
had to say that she attended to Herr Raumer, and that at 
nine o’clock in the evening he called her up, and sent her 
with a letter to Mr. Tyrrell. There was no answer, and she 
returned immediately after delivering the note. Then he 
rang the bell again and told her that he was going away that 
night — going on a long journey. 

An intelligent juror here interposed. He said that a long 
journey might mean anything, and he asked the witness why 
she did not ask him how long it was ? 

Forty-four replied that she never asked Herr Raumer 
anything, but answered his questions, and as he did not say 
where he was going, it was not for her to inquire. She went 
on to depose that he added that he should not return any 
more ; that instead of a month’s notice he paid down a month’s 
rent ; that as she had attended him for some years he gave 
her a five-pound note, which he advised her to keep for her- 
self, and not waste it in buying things for her brothers 
and sisters — this was a touch entirely Raumeresque. Then 


434 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


he looked about the room, and said that the furniture could 
go to Mrs. Brambler, and she might have his old piano if she 
liked. Then she asked him what they were to do with the 
books which are in French, with yellow paper covers, in 
fact, French novels. He laughed, and said that if she 
pleased she might keep them till her brothers grew up, and 
then give them the books, which would certainly teach them 
a good deal about life previously unsuspected by them ; but 
that, if she preferred, she might sell them for what they 
would fetch as waste paper. At all events, he would 
never want any of the books or any of the things any 
more. 

The Coroner here interposed, and asked her if she was 
quite sure that those were the very words the lodger 
used. 

The witness was perfectly certain that those were his 
exact words. 

‘‘ He would never want the books or any of the things any 
more.” 

The jury whispered together. 

Then the Coroner asked the girl about the knife. 

She knew nothing about the knife; she had never seen 
such a knife in his room ; but could not swear that he had 
no such knife, because he kept everything locked up. Per- 
haps the knife had been lying among Herr RaumeFs things 
in one of the drawers. Had never tried to look into the 
drawers, would not be so mean as to pry into things. 

Here the suspicious juror remarked plaintively that he 
should like to see the five-pound note which the deceased had 
given her. She produced the note, which was handed round 
among the jury, who examined it as carefully as if it had been 
an important de conviction. Then they all shook their 
heads at one another, and gave it back to the Coroner, who 
restored it to Forty-four. 

There being no other evidence to call, the Coroner pro- 
ceeded to sum up. 

The jury must consider, he said, all the circumstances. 
The deceased informed an old friend in the morning that he 


A CORONER’S INQUEST. 


435 


intended to go away shortly ; in the evening he sent a very 
extraordinary epistle, stating that he was going away for 
ever’’ — the jury would make a note of that expression. At 
the same time he tells the little girl who was accustomed to 
attend upon him — and he was constrained to express his admi- 
ration at the very straightforward way in which that little 
girl’s evidence was given — that he was going away, and was 
not coming back again. Let the jury mark, at this point, the 
suddenness of resolution. He took nothing with him; he 
abandoned the piano, his books, everything ; and even made 
the very important remark that he should not want any of 
them any more. Why not ? If a man goes on the Continent 
he does not give up reading; if a man changes his residence 
he does not throw away, so to speak, all his furniture, but 
carries it with him, or sells it ; but Herr Raumer was not, as 
he told the girl, Charlotte Brambler, going on the Continent; 
he was going — let the jury mark this very earnestly, he was 
going — on a long journey. Very good : but consider another 
point. The doctor was of opinion that the blow, if that of a 
suicide, must have required great determination. Possibly, 
perhaps, Herr Raumer had not the requisite amount of reso- 
lution, but the jury all remembered him — a stout, stern, and 
determined-looking person. As to courage, no man could 
tell when any other man’s courage came to an end. And 
there were the facts that the knife was found in his hand, 
covered with blood ; that there was no sign of any struggle 
on the ground, and that the knife was of foreign manufacture. 
If it was not suicide, what was it ? Could the j ury believe 
that a man of singularly quiet, regular, and reserved habits, 
should go out in the dead of the night, after making those 
remarkable statements and writing that remarkable letter, 
for a stroll, without his hat, on the walls ? That he should 
then, still with the intention of taking a purposeless stroll, 
have climbed over the wooden railings into the field, and 
then presented his breast, offering no resistance, to the 
murderer? Then it was whispered that a convict, escaped 
that morning from the prison close by, might have done the 
deed. First of all^ he must say that it appeared to him 


43 ^ 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


disgraceful that any convict should escape, but it was absurd 
to connect the convict with the death of a man he could 
not have known and whom he did not rob. Also, how 
did that convict get hold of a foreign knife? Let the 
police catch and produce the fugitive, and it would then 
be time to consider the absurd suggestion. There, in fact, 
was the evidence, all before the jury. They were a body of 
educated and intelligent men; they had sat at Coroners’ 
inquests before, and he, the Coroner, was glad to say that 
a more trustworthy body of men to weigh evidence imparti- 
ally he did not hope or desire to find. He therefore dis- 
missed them in the confident hope that they would shortly 
return with a verdict. 

In five minutes the jury came back. Their finding was 
unanimous. It was that the deceased committed suicide 
while suffering from temporary insanity. 

This verdict, never disputed, was the end of the whole 
business. The deceased was buried at the expense of the 
Mayor, who acted as chief mourner. Our Polish friends 
made not the slightest sign of any knowledge of the deed ; 
no one in the town knew anything, and our only accomplice 
was Stepney Bob. I never heard that he was recaptured, 
and I have every reason to believe that he managed to escape 
altogether and get to America or some other part of the 
world, where his possible good private qualities had not been 
obscured by his public reputation as a cracker of cribs. Nor 
did it appear that any inquiry was made into the matter by 
the Russians. They did not acknowledge the mouchard who 
died fighting for his life with one of the people whom he was 
paid to watch. If he had friends or relations, none of 
them ever turned up. No doubt his was an assumed name, 
under which no one of his own people would be likely to 
recognise him. 

When I recovered, and was able to be told everything, 
I confess to a feeling that fortune for once had found a 
fitting death for a man. 

We never told the Captain, Leonard and I. But once, 
when Mr. Tyrrell had been lamenting in public over his 


“LEONARD AND CISJ 


437 


great private loss, while lie was perfectly oblivious of the 
little facts which preceded the death of his friend, I ventured 
to tell him privately the whole history. After that we 
never mentioned him again. The behaviour of Leonard in 
suppressing the real facts was, like his conduct when first 
he introduced himself to the Captain — what Mr. John 
Pontifex called a Wrong Thing. 


CHAPTER L. 

^^LEONARD AND CIS.” 

I GOT well again and strong, but I was forbidden to do 
any teaching work for two or three months, and had to 
give up all engagements for that space. 

A holiday of three months, with Celia to come every day, 
till I was strong enough to go out, and read to me ; the 
Captain to fidget about what was best for me to eat and 
drink ; Leonard to tell stories, and sometimes the Rev. 
John Pontifex to come and sit with me, making profound 
remarks on the wickedness of man in general, his own 
fearful backslidings in his youth, and the incredible amount 
of repentance which they involved, the ignorance of the 
Papists, and the strength of will possessed by his remark- 
able wife. Or Mr. Broughton, who would come round, and, 
by way of giving me a fillip, read a little Greek with me 
and then send round a few bottles of choice old port. Mrs. 
Pontifex sent strawberries and tracts; she also told me 
that my fever was no doubt intended to bring me more 
directly under the influence of her husband’s ministrations. 
Augustus Brambler would come bursting in between the 
intervals of writ-serving and message-running, to tell me 
joyfull}" of the great business done by the House. And 
little Forty- four would come as often as she could ; if no 
one else was with me she sat down, beaming with smiles, 
the tenderest of little nurses, and told me how they were 
all getting on, — Forty-six developing into a real genius 
over his books — he w^as the son who subsequently became a 


43 ^ 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


Reporter and Journalist ; Forty-eight, who had been caned 
at school for insubordination, and so on. I learned, too, 
from her that the famous five-pound note had been, contrary 
to the donor’s intention, distributed in new clothes, as far 
as it would go among the whole family. A new lodger had 
been found who was at least more considerate than the 
former, did not dine at home, and talked to the children. 

But, of course, Celia was the most regular visitor, and 
with her, Leonard. They came together and went away 
together; and in my presence he made shameless love till 
sometimes the light of answering love flashed for a moment 
in her eyes, and then she drew herself from him, blushing, 
and fell to busying about my pillows. Miss Rutherford 
drove over from Fareharn, too. She turned out to be 
exactly what she looked at first sight — for that matter, 
people always do; a gentle, quiet, and careful old lady, who 
ought to belong to some planet where there are no such 
things as temptations, follies, or worldliness. She was 
always prettily and daintily dressed, and as became an 
elderly lady, behind the fashion. 

She had a sweet and pleasant face, with an expression on 
it which reminded one of Leonard, and when she spoke it 
was in a clear and precise way, like the ripple of a stream 
over stones. And when she looked at her nephew it was 
with an ever-growing wonder that there should be in the 
world such a boy as that to call her Aunt. 

Imagine all the sentimental and tender things that these 
two women, Miss Rutherford and Cis, would say to each 
other and to me as they sat beside my arm-chair while I 
was recovering. Think, if you can, how they were bound 
together by their common love for one man, and how they 
would read, as women always try to do, in each other’s 
soul, dissatisfied until they succeed in finding, as in a 
mirror, each her own image in the heart of the other. 
Some women can have no half measures ; they must love 
wholly and trust altogether ; and they must receive back 
as much as they give. 

I tried to write down some of these tender scenes, but I 


“LEONARD AND CIS/ 


439 


have torn them up ; words that are altogether sweet and 
precious when spoken sometimes look sentimental and mean- 
ingless when they are written down. What they came to 
was this, that two women tried to spoil one man by attention 
and thoughtfulness, and did their best to make another man 
vain by their exceeding love for him. I do not think either 
was much injured. 

In September we all four, Miss Rutherford acting chaperon, 
went to the Lakes together in order to complete my re- 
covery. 

I have been in many places since the year 1858, and 
enjoyed many holidays. I have learned to know this beau- 
tiful garden set with all manner of delights, with mountain, 
stream, lakes, and forests, with all kinds of sweet flowers 
and singing birds to raise the heart of man, which we call 
England. I have dreamed away the hours in the pleasant 
land of France, among old castles by the stately Loire, or 
where the white cliffs of Normandy face their sisters of 
Albion. I have sat among the students of Germany and 
wandered among the sweet-scented pines round mountain 
feet, but I have had no holiday such as that. A dreamy 
time, when one was still weak enough to allow the sentiment 
of the situation to dwell in the mind, with a clinging for 
the last time to the robe of Celia, while all sorts of sweet 
phrases and cadences gathered themselves together and took 
shape in my heart, to be expressed in music when I might 
find time to set them down, with a new interest in listening 
to the talk, so truthful and so old-fashioned, of the lady 
whom chance had joined to our party, who ought to have 
been set in a bower full of flowers and fruit, with pictures 
about her of angels — not Churchy angels — ladies could be 
pious twenty years ago without ecclesiastical rubbish — and 
faces of holy women full of trustful thought. With this, 
the old admiration for Leonard, the strong, the brave, the 
handsome Leonard. 

One evening, after sunset, we were in a boat on Derwent- 
water, Leonard, Cis, and I. Leonard was rowing us gently, 
letting the oars dip slowly in the smooth water, and then 


440 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUE. 


resting, while the boat made slow way among the wooded 
islets. Cis and I sat side by side in the stern, she was 
steering. The dark foliage was black now, and the lighter 
leaves were changed into a dark green. The lake was still 
and quiet, now and then a fish came to the surface with an 
impatient splash as if it really was getting too dull down 
below ; or a wild-fowl fiew over our heads with a whirr ; or 
a noise of voices, mellowed by distance, came across the 
water from the hotel, and far off somewhere a man was 
blowing a horn, and the echoes fiew from hill to hill. 

“Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying.** 

Celia quoted softly. 

And then we were all silent again. 

It was Leonard who spoke next. Deeper darkness had 
fallen upon us now, clouds were coming up in the west, and 
the breeze began to rise. The boat was quite motionless, 
on either hand an islet, before us in the distance the lights 
of the hotel refiected in the water. And again the sweet 
rolling echoes of the horn. 

Said Leonard, speaking softly — 

“ There is a thing I should like to tell you, Cis, if Laddy 
will let me. It is a thing which he told me in his delirium, 
a thing I ought to have suspected before, but did not, so dull 
and selfish as I was. Can you guess what it is ? ” 

I could guess very well. There was nothing else that I 
could have told unknown to Cis already. 

I thought I was the only one who knew,” Leonard con- 
tinued. “ But I was not ; the Captain knows.” 

He knew before,” I murmured. “ Tell Cis, if you please, 
Leonard, if you think well. But remember, it is all a thing 
of the past — forgotten — torn up by the roots.” 

‘‘ When I went away, Cis, dear,” Leonard began, I left 
you in the charge of Ladislas. You were, I told him, in my 
conceited way, to be his peculiar trust, he was to look after 
you, to watch you, and to anticipate everything that you 
could want.” 

‘‘ And so he has done,” said Cis. Haven’t you, Laddy ? ” 


“LEONARD AND CIS." 


441 


“ Tlie reason I gave him was that I loved you, my Queen, 
and that if things went well — all looks easy to a boy — I 
proposed coming back, and telling you myself — in five years 
time. Observe, please, the extraordinary selfishness of a 
boy of eighteen. At that age one cannot possibly think of 
anything but oneself. Well — I went away — I came back. 
Fortune had been kinder to me — far lender than I ever 
deserved. I am loaded with the gifts of Heaven. Don’t 
think me ungrateful, because I talk little about these things. 
I can only talk of them to you two. But that is nothing. 
While I was away, Cis, you grew from a child into a 
woman.’* 

‘‘ Yes, Leonard.” 

‘‘ What I did not think of was that Laddy was growing 
too from a boy to a man — what I forgot was that there would 
be one girl and two men — that both men might love the 
same girl.” 

Laddy ! ” Cis cried with surprise and pain. 

“ Forgive me, Cis,” I said, “ Leonard has told you the 
truth. For a time — it was early this year, I think — what 
he hinted at was the case. I fought with it, and I beat it 
down, because it was hopeless, and because of the promise 
I gave to Leonard. But it is true that there was a time 
when I gave way, and — ventured to love you, otherwise than 
a brother may. Why did you tell her, Leonard ? ” 

Because I want her and myself to feel more what we owe 
to you, Laddy, to your unselfish labour, your watchfulness, 
and the sacrifice of your own interests. He loved you, and 
he gave you up, Cis. I wonder if any words of mine could 
make you understand what that meant to him.” 

“ It could never have been, Leonard,” I said. “ How could 
it ? Celia was my sister, always.” 

She laid her hand in mine and one arm upon my 
shoulder. 

‘‘ Always your sister, Laddy dear. And henceforth more 
and more. There is now nothing that we have not told each 
other.” 

Henceforth, more and more. Yes, as the time has gone 


442 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


by, nothing has dimmed the steady trust and affection which 
Celia has showered upon me. I can see now, too, how different 
her life would have been, how wanting in fulness, had 
things been different, and had she married me. Some 
women are happiest with a man of action; how could the 
life of a dreamer like me satisfy the aspirations of a girl 
who worthily fills the place of Leonard’s wife, and has 
stepped gracefully into the rank to which his success has 
raised her? 

About that one thing we never spoke any more. 

Leonard rowed us quietly back to the hotel, the lawn of 
which ran down to the water’s edge. The garden was full 
of the visitors, for the evening was warm. They looked at 
us as we passed them, Celia with her hand on my shoulder 
in the old familiar fashion, staring with that half-impudent, 
furtive way in which English people at hotels look at each 
other and at strangers. In the salon was nobody but Miss 
Eutherford, quietly waiting our return. 

She asked Leonard to take her into the garden for a walk, 
and left Celia and me alone. 

Then I sat down to the piano, and collected my thoughts 
— all those musical thoughts of which I have spoken, — and 
began to play them. 

It was no improvisation, because the ideas had been long 
in my head, and many of them had been already noted down 
and tried over, but it was the first time I played the piece 
as a whole. 

“ What is it, Laddy ? ” Celia asked, as she saw me striving 
to talk to her in the old fashion with my fingers on the keys, 
a language unknown to the outer world. “ What is it ? I 
cannot understand it yet.” 

‘^Listen, Cis. It is a love poem of two young people — we 
will call them ‘ Leonard and Cis.’ It tells how one went 
away, and how after five years he came back again, not a 
prodigal son, but covered with honour; how they fell in love 
at once, and how after many difficulties, which were got over 
in a most surprising and extraordinary manner, quite as if 
these two lovers belonged to a novel, which, of course, they 


LEONARD AND CIS/ 


443 


did not, they were finally married, and lived happily for 
ever and ever. Now listen.” 

The symphony came forth from my brain clear and 
distinct, and, after a few bars of prelude, flowed straight 
on to the end. I have written plenty of music since, 
though I am not, as Celia affects to think me, a great 
composer, but I have written none that has pleased me 
so much, that dwells so constantly in my mind, and 
where I have found such fulness of expression. It is, I 
am sure, by some such masterful wave of passion that 
the highest expression and the noblest conceptions are 
brought together in the brain, and great works are pro- 
duced. 

I could see in my own music — and Celia could see it as 
well — first a rippling movement showing the peace and 
sunshine of early maidenhood ; then the yearnings and 
unconscious reaching out of hands in thought for a fuller 
and richer life ; then the awakening of Love the glorious, 
like the awakening of Adam in the garden, to look about 
with wonder, to walk with uncertainty, to feel his way in 
broad daylight, to fear lest it should be a dream, and that 
the vision should pass away, and all be nothingness again. 
Presently followed the growth of passion till it became a 
great river for strength. And lastly, the Wedding Hymn 
of triumph. 

Do you understand it, Cis ? ” I asked. ‘‘ It is meant 
for you, and written for you. I shall copy it all out, and 
give you a copy, as my wedding present.” 

I think I understand — some of it,” she replied. How 
can your pupil understand it all at first ? 0 Laddy ! you 

have made me very humble to-night. How can men love 
women as they do? What are we, and what can we do, 
compared with them, that they should lavish such affection 
upon us ? ” 

‘‘ Ask Leonard,” I replied, laughing. 

And outside the people were all listening in the garden. 
When I finished there was a general applause, as if I had 
been playing for them. 


444 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


That night, an hour later, I heard below in the garden 
the voices of those who sat up still. 

Who was it playing ? ” asked a girl’s voice. “ He has 
a sweet face ; it is a pity he is deformed.” 

‘‘ It is a certain Pulaski — Pole, I suppose. Patriot 
most likely. Count, of course, or Baron, or Duke” — this 
agreeable person was a man, perhaps the young lady’s 
husband — some adventurer, most likely, who goes about 
trying to pick up a rich English wife by his tale of mis- 
fortunes and his pianoforte-playing. To-night’s performance 
was an exhibition. No doubt he wants to fascinate that 
extremely pretty girl, almost as pretty as some one else I 
could name.” 

‘^Nonsense, sir, a great deal prettier; and, besides, she’s 
engaged to the tall young man, who is a Captain Copleston 
and a Crimean officer. The old lady with them is a Miss 
Eutherford. She is his aunt, and plays propriety. I do 
not know anything about the pianoforte-player.” 

Well, I’m glad she is not going to marry a hunchback, 
pianoforte playing Pole.” 

Listeners, as has been frequently observed, never here 
any good of themselves. But I played no more at the 
Derwentwater hotel, because next day we returned south- 
wards, and began all of us to prepare diligently for Celia’s 
wedding. 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ RING, WEDDING BELLS ! " 

I HAVE come to the end of my story, the only story I 
have to tell from my own experience. How should it 
end but with a wedding? There is no romance where 
there is no love ; there is no pleasure in the contemplation 
of love unless it ends happily, and is crowned with orange 
blossoms ; love is the chief happiness of life, as everybody 
knows — except, perhaps, John Pontifex— and has ever been 
completed by the wedding-bells. 

Ring, wedding bells, then ; shake out the clashing music 


« RING, WEDDING BELLS ! 


445 


of your joy over all the fields, startle the farmer at his work, 
rouse the student at his desk, strike on the ear of the sailor 
out at sea, echo along the shore, mingle with the roar of 
the saluting guns to greet the ship's crew when they come 
home, so that they may know that during their three years' 
cruise the world’s happiness has not altogether died away. 
Bring back to the old a memory of a day long gone by. 
Lift up the heart of the young with hope. Put ambitious 
thoughts of such a day of victory into the mind of the 
maidens who would like nothing better than to hear the 
bells ring for themselves on such a wedding morning, and 
walk in such a procession, decked with such white robes 
and such orange wreaths. May they ring for every one of 
our girls, so that not one shall miss the love of a man but 
those who are unworthy. 

They were married in the old church, the parish church, 
a mile from the town. 

It is a day at the end of October, a breezy day of 
autumn ; the clouds are driving across the sky, light clouds 
which leave plenty of clear blue sky and sunshine; the 
leaves are lying all about the old churchyard, drifting in 
heaps against the headstones and whirling round and round 
like unquiet spirits within the iron railings of the vaults ; 
at the edge of the paupers' corner is a small new cross, 
quite simple, which I have not seen before. It is ‘‘ In 
memory of Lucy, wife of Captain Richard Copleston, late 
of Her Majesty's Tenth Regiment of Dragoons, who died 
in this town in childbirth, in her twenty-first year.” Poor 
Lucy ! Poor hapless victim of a selfish and cold-hearted 
villain ! I knew that Leonard would put up some monu- 
ment to his mother’s memory, but he had not told me 
that it was done already. Doubtless he wished it to be 
there before his marriage. 

The churchyard is full of people waiting to see the wed- 
ding ; the honest folk from Victory Row are there. I shake 
hands with Jem Hex and his wife and half a dozen more, 
who knew me in the old days of Mrs. Jeram’s guardianship. 
They care less for the bride than for the bridegroom, these 


446 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUB. 


denizens of Victory Row. That a boy, go to speak, who 
used to run ragged about the logs on the Hard, who played 
on their own doorsteps, who was accustomed to fight Moses 
daily, and on small provocation, before the sight of all ; 
who actually, only the other day, did not disdain to re- 
member the old time, and cowhided Moses again at the 
Blue Anchor; that such a boy should have become such a 
man was not, of course, unexpected, because out of Victory 
Row have come plenty of distinguished men — though not 
down in books — Nelson’s bulldogs, mind you, and a few of 
Wellington’s veterans. But that he should have developed 
to that height of greatness as to be a real Captain in the 
army, and come home to marry nothing short of the 
daughter of the Mayor, and her a lady as beautiful as the 
day — that was, if you please, something quite out of the 
common. 

Here is the Captain, marching up the walk in uniform 
and epaulettes, as becomes a great occasion. Fall back, 
good people, don’t crowd the Captain. God bless the 
Captain ! Is the Captain looking well to-day ? And a happy 
day for him, too, if all’s true that’s said. Which if any 
credit is due to anybody for that boy turning out so well, 
it’s due to the Captain. There was only one Captain for 
these people. Other persons held equal rank in the Navy, 
it is true ; there were, for instance. Captain Luff, Captain 
Hardaport, Captain Bobstay — who was only a retired master 
with Captain’s title — all living not far from Victory Row ; 
but they had their names assigned to them as well as their 
titles — ours had not. The old man, pleased to see so many 
people gather together to do honour to him and his, stops 
and has a word to say to every one, and then goes on to the 
church, where he stands by the altar, and waits. 

The Rev. John Pontifex and Mrs. Pontifex his wife. The 
sailor-folk know nothing of them except as residents. So 
they pass in the silence of respect, John Pontifex with his 
long-tail coat on, and a very voluminous white muffler 
round his neck. 

The Rev. Verney Broughton. He it is who is going to 


RING, WEDDING BELLS ! 


447 


marry them. Ah ! quoth John Hex, and a right sort, too, as 
he has heard, either for a glass of wine, or for a marriage, or 
for a sermon. From Oxford College, he is, and once taught 
Master Leonard a mort o’ learning which, no doubt, helped 
him agin them Rooshans. 

Among the people, bustling here and there with import- 
ance, is the historiographer, Ferdinand Brambler, note-book 
in hand. He goes into the church ; comes out and dashes 
down observations in his note-book on a tombstone ; listens 
to the people and jots down more observations, and then, 
absorbed in meditations, is seen standing motionless, as if 
grappling for the mastery of language. This is a great day 
for Ferdinand. 

Round the church door are all the younger members of the 
Brambler family, told off to strew flowers at the feet of the 
bride. Augustus is with them, bearing in his hands a pair 
of new white cotton gloves, and an air of immense dignity. 
These crowds, this ringing of bells, strewing of flowers, and 
general excitement, all attest in his eyes to the greatness 
and glory of the Legal. Nothing in the Scholastic, not 
even a prize-giving, ever came near it. All the children are 
dressed in new clothes, presented by the Captain, so that 
they may do fitting honour to the occasion. 

Leonard had pressed me to be his best man, which, 
indeed, was my proper place. But I wanted to play the 
organ for Celia’s marriage, and I had promised myself to 
play my own Love Symphony, which she alone knew. It 
was a fancy of mine. Forty-four, my faithful little ally and 
friend, begged to come with me to the organ loft. 

It is after eleven, and time to go up the stairs. What are 
those heavy heels tramping in the aisle ? They are Leonard’s 
company, with, I believe, half the regiment, come to see 
Gentleman Jack married. I remembered the faces of the 
rogues: they were at the '‘Blue Anchor” that night when 
he thrashed Moses, and made him give me up the papers. 
Jem the organ-blower is in his place ; Forty-four is by me 
to turn over the leaves. Stay one moment. Forty-four, let 
us look through the curtains again. There is Leonard goino’ 


448 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


up the aisle. He is in uniform, as are his best men as 
officers of the Garrison — the young naval officer whom they 
call Grif, and a man of his own regiment. A brave show of 
scarlet and gold. His brother officers are mostly in the 
church, and the Colonel among them. 

There comes Uncle Ferdinand,” says Forty-four. “ Oh ! 
how beautifully he will describe it ! ” 

All are there but the bride. She is coming. Now, Forty- 
four, for Celia’s Symphony. 

The music rolls and echoes among the rafters in the 
roof. As I play I am a prophet, and see before me the 
happy years unfold their golden wings. All is as it ought 
to be ; let those who have to sit during their lives outside 
the halls of human joy take pleasure in the prospect of 
others’ happiness, and be thankful that they can at least 
look on. 

There is the bride,” whispered Forty-four. “ Oh ! how 
lovely — oh ! how sweet she looks ! ” 

My Wedding Hymn of Prayer and Praise — listen to it, 
Celia — I know that you are listening— as you stand for a 
moment before the altar beside your lover waiting for the 
words to be spoken. Listen ! There is no joy, says the 
music, given to men and women like the holy joy of love; 
there can be no praise too full and deep for the gift of 
love ; there can be no prayer too eloquent for the continu- 
ance of love. Listen ! it is the voice of your heart speaking 
in the music which rings and rolls about the pillars of 
the old church — I learned it reading in your heart itself — • 
it is singing aloud to God in gratitude and praise, singing 
in the music where I have enshrined it and preserved it for 
you. 

I finish my symphony, and the service begins. The words 
are faint and low as they mount to the organ-loft. I have 
pulled the curtains aside, and we watch, we three, Forty-four, 
Jem the organ-blower, and I, from our gallery, while Leonard 
holds Celia’s hands in his, and they take the vow which binds 
them for ever to each other. You are crying. Forty-four? 
Foolish child. 


449 


“RING, WEDDING BELLS !” 

All is over, and they have gone into the vestry. Come, 
we have played Celia’s Symphony before the wedding, with 
her Hymn. Now for the March. Mendelssohn alone has 
reached the true triumphal rapture. His music is the 
exultation of the bridegroom ; it is a man s song ; the 
song of a man who bears his bride away ; the song of the 
young men who clap their hands; the jubilant blare of 
cannons and trumpets which throw their music abroad to 
the winds that envious men may hear; and though the 
women cry, like foolish little Forty-four, we drown their 
tears with song and shout. A bridegroom’s song of triumph 
this. 

But the bride is gone, and the bridal company with her; 
the children have strewn their flowers upon the ground ; 
the carriages have driven off ; only the people are left ; they, 
too, are leaving the church ; in a few moments we shall be 
alone in the loft. 

Gonsummatum est. Leonard has come home ; Leonard has 
won his bride : Celia has gone from us. Shut up the organ, 
Forty-four; let us go down and join the wedding guests. 
Somehow I do not feel much like feasting. 

Mr. Tyrrell was by no means the kind of man to make a 
mean show on this auspicious occasion. He had a marquee 
erected in his garden, where two tables were laid ; he invited 
to the breakfast his whole staff of clerks with their families, 
including all who bore the name of Brambler — they had 
the second table; he would have invited all the regiment 
if Leonard had allowed him. As it was, there appeared a 
great gathering of his brother officers. No nobler wedding 
breakfast, Ferdinand Brambler reported, had ever before 
been witnessed in the town, and it reflected, he said, the 
greatest credit on Mr. Honeybun, the eminent local con- 
fectioner and pastrycook, who evinced on this occasion 
talents of an order inferior to none, not even Fortnum and 
Mason, the purveyors to princes. It may be mentioned 
that the occasion was one of which Ferdinand made four 
columns and a half. The wedding report ran to the 

Z F 


450 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


batclier’s bill for three whole weeks, and included a small 
outstanding account with the greengrocer, as Augustus 
himself told me. It was headed, ^‘Wedding of the Mayor’s 
only Daughter,” in large type, and was divided into headed 
sections. Thus : The Churchyard,” Decorations of the 
Church,” The Organist,” of whom he spoke with some 
reticence, for Ferdinand had feeling for my long friendship 
with bride and bridegroom ; The Bridegroom and his 
Gallant Supporters,” ‘‘ The Arrival of the Bride,” The 
Wedding,” in which he gave the rein to religious feelings, 
and spoke of the impressive reading of Mr. Broughton, the 
reverent attention of those war-stained heroes, the officers of 
the regiment, and the tears of the bridesmaids ; The 
Departure,” in which my own rendering of the Wedding 
March” was gracefully alluded to; and, finally, “The Wedding 
Breakfast,” in the description of which he surpassed himself, 
so that those who read of that magnificent feed felt hungry 
immediately. I do not know what reward he received of 
Mr. Honeybun, the confectioner, but he ought to have had 
free run among the tarts for life. It was not at all a solemn 
or a tearful meal. Mr. John Pontifex, seated well out of 
his wife’s sight, was between two young officers, to whom 
he communicated recollections of his early life at Oxford, 
and the reckless profligacy which he had witnessed, and 
even — “ Oh ! ” I heard him say, “ it is a most awful event 
to look back upon” — participated in and encouraged. He 
told them the Goose story, he told how he had once fallen 
in love with a young person — in fact, of the opposite sex — 
in Oxford, and how, excepting that single experience, 
“ Love,” as he said, “ has never yet, I regret to say, reached 
this poor — cold — heart of mine.” All this was very delight- 
ful to his two hearers, and I observed the rapture with 
which they plied him with champagne, of which he drank 
immense quantities, becoming frightfully pale, and listened 
to his reminiscences. No doubt Mrs. Pontifex would have 
been greatly pleased had she been present that evening in 
the mess-room, and heard the reproduction of these anecdotes. 
It was in the ponderous manner peculiar to clergymen of 


KING, WEDDING BELLS 


451 


his standing and scholarship, that Mr. Broughton proposed 
the health of the bride and bridegroom. He had known 
them both, he said, from infancy. There were no words at 
his command strong enough to express his affection for the 
bride, or, if he might say so as a Christian man, his envy of 
the bridegroom. On the other hand, for such a bride, there 
was none fitter than such a bridegroom. This young 
Achilles, having obtained from the gods a better fate than 
the hero to whom he likened him, had returned victorious 
from the wars, and won the fairest prize. They all knew 
Leonard Copleston’s history, how the young gentleman, 
the son of a long line of gallant gentlemen, met adverse 
fortune with a resolute front, and conquered her, not 
with a sword, but with a bayonet ; what they did not 
know, perhaps, was what he could tell them, as Leonard’s 
tutor, that he had always as a boy looked on the gallant 
soldier as the nobliest type of manhood. “We all,” said 
Mr. Broughton, “ envy the man who fights ; even the most 
popular priest is the priest militant : the glory of a poet or 
a painter is pale compared with the glory of a general ; let 
us wish for Leonard Copleston a long career of honour and 
distinction, and for them both, my friends, for Leonard 
and Celia Copleston, let us wish that their love may endure 
beyond the brief moon of passion, and grow in depth as the 
years run on; that in fact, like the finest port, age may 
only develop its colour, bring out its bouquet, and mature 
its character.” 

The old Captain would not speak, though they drank his 
health. He had been sitting opposite to Celia, and when 
they said kind things about him — it was Leonard’s Colonel 
who said them — he only got up, and with a breaking voice 
said that he thanked God for the happiest day in all 
his life. 


452 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


CHAPTER LII. 

CONCLUSION. 

"FvE AW the curtains, Mrs. Jeram ; we will shut out the 
JLy night, I will light the candles.” 

It is nearly twenty years later than Celia’s wedding. 
Mrs. J eram is an old woman now, and blind, but it pleases 
her to do little things, and to fancy that she is still house- 
keeper. 

Everything is changed in the town. They have pulled 
down the old walls and levelled the moats; the Dockyard 
has spread itself over the place where from Celia’s Arbour 
we looked across the harbour. All the romance went out 
of the place when they swept away the walls and filled up 
the moats ; it was a cruel thing to do, but no one seemed to 
remonstrate, and it is done now. The Government wanted 
the ground, they said. There was plenty of other ground 
lying about, which they might have had. The Milldam is 
filled up, and a soldier’s hospital has been built upon it ; of 
course, the King’s Mill has gone too. All the old guard- 
houses have been taken down ; the gates are no longer shut 
at night; in fact, there are no more gates to shut. The 
harbour, too, is not what it was ; they have wantonly broken 
up and destroyed nearly all the old historic ships, save the 
one where Nelson died, and she is as naked and as empty as 
when she first came out of dock ; only a few of the venerable 
hulks remain, and I daresay, while I am writing these very 
lines, some economic Lord of the Admiralty is issuing orders 
for the destruction of the rest. The veterans with their 
wooden legs have all left the bench upon the Hard, and gone 
to the churchyard. The very bench is gone ; steam launches 
run about the harbour to the detriment and loss of the boat- 
men ; and a railway runs down to the edge of the water. 
No doubt the improvements were wanted, but still one 
regrets the past. Of course, the sailor of the present is 
not like the sailor of the past ; that we all know, and there 
is little room for sorrow on that score. A new suburb has 


CONCLUSION. 


453 


grown up behind our old wild and desolate sea-shore; it 
is a fine place, and we are proud of it. We are all changed 
together with our surroundings, and the vie de province is 
no longer what it was in the days of Mr. Broughton and 
the Captain. As for me, I have not changed. I am still 
a music-master. As I said at the beginning, you may read 
on my brass plate the name of “ L. Pulaski, Teacher of Music 
and Singing.” And people have quite left off the little 
confidential whisper, ‘‘a Pole of illustrious family — might 
enjoy a title if he wished.” I have made a little name, not 
much, by certain things I have written, especially the Sym- 
• phony I wrote for Celia — the best piece I have ever done. 
Mrs. Jeram, as I have said, lives with me still, and talks 
about the old, old days. She is sitting before me now as I 
write. See — I leave the table, and open the piano. The 
tears come into her darkened eyes. 

“ It is the tune the Captain liked,” she says. 

To be sure it is.” 

“ * The wind that blows, and the ship that goea^ 

And the lass that loves a sailor.* ’* 

Almost needless to say that the old actors in the drama of 
my life are all dead. 

The first to go was Mrs. Pontifex. She was, in her way, 
fond of me, and I should have been guilty of ingratitude if, 
in return, I had not conceived a respect for her. As I think 
of her, so gaunt, so unbending in principles and shoulders, 
so upright in morals and in backbone, so unyielding in 
doctrine and in muffins, I wonder if I am already only forty, 
since she has left no one like her, and her race is extinct. 
She died of a cold caught through her adherence to one of 
her Christian privileges — never to light a fire in her sitting- 
rooms till November. 

It was in i860, a year about which I remember nothing 
except that it rained from June to October without stopping, 
and a wag announced in Punch that there would be no 
summer that year because the Zodiac was taken up for 
repairs. We all laughed at that, and then some of us began 


BY CELIACS ARBOUR. 


454 

to reflect with shame, and especially those who had been 
educated by the Eev. Verney Broughton, that very likely it 
was true, and that certainly we had no sort of idea what the 
Zodiac was. 

At the end of that continuous rain, then, Mrs. Pontifex 
died, and was gathered to her forefathers. A fortnight after 
I called on her husband. He was gardening, looking, as he 
stooped with his long thin figure over the plants, very much 
like a letter of the Hebrew Alphabet. 

He was weeding the strawberry bed — the strawberries 
that year, by reason of the long rains, had been like turnips 
for size and taste. He rose when he heard my footsteps, 
and shook his head solemnly. In either hand he held an 
apple. It struck me that this was the first proof of recovered 
liberty, as in his wife’s time he had never been allowed to 
eat any fruit at all. The prohibition, based on hygienic 
reasons, always appeared to me to have been issued because 
John Pontifex was particularly fond of fruit. 

I mourn net, Johnnie,” he said, taking a bite out of the 
right-hand apple; “I mourn not for her who is departed. 
Rather,” he added, with emphasis, biting into the left-hand 
apple, I rejoice — ahem — with exceeding great joy.” 
Whether he rejoiced because she was gone, or because of an 
assurance of her future, did not appear on the face of his 
statement. What he added was more obscure still. Next 
year,” he said, with a noise which might have been a sob 
and might have been a chuckle, “next year I shall have 
all those — ahem — those apples and strawberries to myself, 
Johnnie.” 

Shortly after this conversation he entertained at dinner the 
Rev. Mr. Broughton, the Captain, and myself. It is note- 
worthy that the “ beverage ” of which his wife would never 
allow him to partake was on this occasion, and many subse- 
quent occasions, freely produced. In fact, I should say, 
from recollection only, that he and his brother clergyman 
despatched a bottle and a half each. It was orthodox Port, 
but indubitably inferior to that possessed by the Perpetual 
Curate of St, Faith s. 


CONCLUSION. 


455 


One thing pleased Mr. Pontifex mightily to relate at that 
dinner. An unfortunate curate, enthusiastic, but young, 
had the Sunday before preached a discourse in which his rev. 
senior fancied he saw glimpses of Tractarianism. So he 
waited till the misguided youth came out of the vestry, and 
then said to him, before the church- wardens and a small 
gathering of friends. 

“Well, that was — ahem — a most infamous sermon of 
yours.” 

And then he walked away, leaving the poor young 
man to seek such explanations and apologies as he 
pleased. 

“ The Tractarians,” he said to-night, after the first bottle 
had brought up the natural pallor of his cheek to a ghastly 
whiteness, “ the Tractarians may use their arguments as they 
please, but to me they fall off as water from the back of the 
— ahem — the proverbial duck, though I have never yet, I 
confess, poured anything but gravy upon the back of that — ■ 
ahem — toothsome delicacy, and therefore am not in a 
position to assert that water actually does run off their 
backs.” 

“ The Tractarians,” said the Perpetual Curate, whose face 
was quite purple, “are the Actarians. They are up and 
doing. They will make a clear sweep of pastors like me 
and idle shepherds like you. Brother Pontifex.” 

And now they are both gone, and the Perpetual Curate’s 
prophecy has come true, and the Church has been reformed, 
with, of course, a small gathering of the foolish who want to 
go on beyond the bounds of reason. Such a service as I 
knew at St. Faith’s would be impossible now even in the 
sleepiest City church. The duet between the Parson and 
the Clerk ha? ceased, the choir is trained, the hymns are 
improved, an 1 the people are attentive. Speaking as a 
musician, I do not find the change altogether for the best. 
I miss the old melancholy hymns of Wesleyan origin which 
we used to sing. It seems to me that life is sad ; the note 
of rapture at which we strike so many of the new hymns is 
strained and unreal. We are still too much like the poor 


456 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


little charity children of my youth, when, after the three 
long services of the day, through which they had been cuffed 
and caned into attention, they had to sing as a concluding or 
parting hymn — 

“ Oh ! may our earthly Sabbaths prove 
A foretaste of our joys above.” 

I find, but then I am only a humble organist in a country 
town, and never go about in the world, but for myself I find 
too much elation, too much joy, to suit the grey tints and 
sombre colours of the working and sorrowing world. 

Mr. Pontifex, the type of the old high-and-dry Calvinist, 
whose life was as strait-laced as his doctrine, with whom 
laughter was a sin, and every innocent recreation an occa- 
sion for repentance, is gone, and his place knows him no 
more. 

Mr. Broughton, the jolly old parson of the high-and-dry 
Church type, who enjoyed all that can be enjoyed by a 
scholar and a Christian in the world, strong in his firm and 
undoubting belief that the doctrines of the Church, faith- 
fully held, avail unto justification, has gone to. We have 
none like him now. I am not a theologian, and, in Church 
matters, doubtless a fool. Nevertheless, I venture to say 
that I regret and mourn his loss. He was not only a 
gentleman — there are plenty of gentlemen still in the Church 
— he was not only a man of pure life and benevolent con- 
duct, but he was a scholar. And I look in vain for scholars 
— rari nantes in gurgite vasto — in these later days. Here 
one, there one ; but, ah ! the old Greek scholar, massive and 
critical, is no longer to be found even among the sleeves of 
lawn ; such scholars as we have mostly run to history — a 
study which Mr. Broughton held to be vain and illusory, 
except when it was the History of the Chosen People — and 
as regards all but modern history, fruitless, because history, 
he thought, repeats itself, and everything new has all been 
done before. 

‘‘We have Hume,” he used to say ; “ we have Gibbon ; we 
have Robertson ; and we have the grand histories in Greek 


CONCLUSIOIT. 


457 


and Latin of the days when men were great. What more 
can one want? Let us sit down and read them; let us 
teach the boys to read them ; and let us leave to restless 
witlings the task of labouring in a worn-out field.” 

Eestless witlings! Dear me! Suppose Mr. Broughton 
had lived to the present day ! 

Others have passed away who twenty years ago took part 
in the drama that I have tried, with pen unpractised, to 
relate. The two brothers Brambler sleep side by side in the 
new cemetery, cut off in their vigour, Ferdinand from a cold 
caught while in the excess of his zeal noting the incidents 
of a review during a hail-storm ; Augustus from a sort of 
grief consumption which seized him at the death of his 
brother. He never joyed after ; ” and though on Sunday 
afternoons he still maintained the imaginary state and 
splendour of a gentleman sitting over his wine” at the 
front window, it was a performance which brought him no 
pleasure but that of mournful reminiscence. And so he 
drooped and died, trusting that he would be remembered by 
posterity for his services in the Legal. 

Friends there were who took charge of the little ones, 
from Forty-four to Fifty-three. And they all did well. My 
especial friend. Forty-four, is married, and has a row of 
children like herself, as apple-faced, as cheery, and as san- 
guine. I hope they will do better than their grandfather. 
She is good enough to maintain her old friendship towards 
myself, undiminished by the love she bears her husband 
and her offspring, and confides to me all her joys and 
sorrows. 

Let me pass to the last scene of my story. 

After Celia married, and the regiment went away, the 
good old Captain began to droop. He was nearly seventy 
years of age, it is true, but I thought he was hale and hearty 
— good for ten years more. 

That was not so. Age crept upon him with stealth, but 
with swiftness. He still went out every morning, but his 


458 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR. 


afternoon walks were gradually shortened, and finally had to 
be dropped altogether. 

Then his friends began to call in the evening to talk to, 
and cheer up, the old man. Mr. Broughton would come 
with a story and anecdote of bygone days ; one or two old 
naval men, chums of his youth, would drop in for a glass of 
grog and a yarn ; we became hospitable, and kept open 
house. And all went well, in spite of increasing weakness, 
until one day it became apparent that the old man could not 
go out to make his morning round. 

Then, for the first time, I learned from him, though I had 
long known it, what the morning round had been, for more 
than twenty years. 

He sat feebly in his arm-chair, patient under the inevitable. 
Nothing was wrong with him, but the weakness of extreme 
old age. His mind was bright and clear, as the last runnings 
of a cask of some noble vintage; but on this morning he 
realised that he must not think of going out any more, as 
he had been wont, in fair weather and foul. A cold east 
wind blew down the street, and a bright sun shone without 
warmth from a steel-blue sky. 

“ The end is growing near, Laddy,” he said. They will 
miss me when I am gone.” 

‘‘ Who, sir ? ” I asked. 

He was silent for a space, thinking. 

To all of us,” he said, “ the Lord giveth His gifts in 
trust. To me He gave, besides Her Majesty’s pension of 
two hundred pounds a-year, a private fortune. No need 
to talk about it to you, Laddy, or to Leonard. It was not 
a great fortune, only this house and a hundred pounds 
a-year, which my father saved up out of his pay. It was 
in the old prize days.” 

I began to understand. 

‘‘So long as you and Leonard were boys,” the Captain 
went on, “ we had the pension to live upon. Plenty for us 
all. And there was the hundred a-year for which I was a 
trustee, you know. When you began to make an income 
the pension became part of the trust 


CONCLUSION. 


459 


Of course, sir, I quite see that.” 

That made three hundred a-year. A good deal ought 
to be done with such a sum. I doubt whether I have done 
the best — but I have tried — I have tried. If a man tries 
to do his duty — he may be stupid — but if he tries, the 
Chief knows. You will find out, when I am goue, how far 
I have done the best, Laddy. It will be yours, the hundred 
a-year and the house ; you will use it, my boy, as you think 
best — not to follow up my lines, unless you think that the 
best way, but as a trust from the Lord, unless your income 
fails, when it will keep you from want. No, Laddy, no 
need to promise. We have not lived together for five-and- 
twenty years for me to begin distrusting. But, if you can, 
look after them, my boy. They are ignorant ; they have no 
friends ; they are degraded ; you will meet at first with all 
sorts of insult and disappointment : but go on, never leave 
them ; and you will end, as I have done, by winning their 
confidence.'^ 

I did not ask him who ^‘they" were, partly because I 
guessed. The old seaport town had dens of wickedness 
in it of which I have said nothing. Indeed, as children, 
though we went daily through the streets which reeked 
with every abominable thing, we saw and knew nothing — 
how should we ? It is the blessed prerogative of innocence 
that it plays unhurt in the den of wild beasts, rides upon 
the lion, and walks scatheless among the rabble rout of 
Oomus. 

All that morning the Captain sat in disquiet. The 
current of his daily thoughts was interrupted. After our 
mid-day dinner, he refused his pipe of tobacco and sat in 
the window, gazing silently upon the Milldam pool, crisped 
by the cold east wind. His work was over ; nothing more 
for him to do but to sit in the chair and wait for the 
end. That must be a solemn moment in a man’s life, 
when he realises that everything is finished. The record 
complete, the book of work shut up, and after all at- 
tempted and achieved, the inevitable feeling of unprofitable 
service. 


460 


BY CELIACS ABBOUR. 


Two days passed; the east wind continued, and grew 
colder; there was no hint at any possibility of going out; 
and on the third day there came, creeping stealthily, a 
deputation consisting of two women, to ask after the Captain. 
They stood shame-faced at the door, and when I asked them 
to enter and see him, they hesitated and looked at each 
other. Then they came in, looking strange and abashed. 
I took them to the Captain, where he sat in his arm-chair, 
and left them with him. Presently, sitting in the other 
room, I heard sobs and cries. 

Afterwards others came, not always outcasts : old grey- 
beards who had been sailors, some of the wooden-legged 
veterans whom I remembered as a boy, aged women, their 
wives and widows, even young fellows, sailors themselves, 
their sons and grandsons. Among them all, one woman 
who came oftenest and stayed the longest. I remembered 
her as the black-haired fury who, as Leonard had reminded 
me, came one evening and made the night air horrible with 
imprecations. Now she was subdued, now she sat as long 
as we would let her, silent and gazing with her black and 
deep- set eyes in the old man’s face. It matters nothing 
about her history, which may be guessed — there is a dread- 
ful similarity about these stories : an emotional, impulsive 
woman who loved and hated, sinned and repented, with the 
same ardour and vehemence ; who believed in the Captain, 
whose patience she had sorely tried, as one believes a 
Gospel. He was her Gospel. 

The end came more quickly than we expected. One 
morning I saw a change, and telegraphed for Leonard 
and Celia to come quickly. The Captain knew, I think, 
that his last day had dawned, for he asked me when we 
had dressed him if I would send for the boy ” and 
Celia. 

They could not arrive before the afternoon. We allowed 
no one to see him except the one who would not be 
denied, and she sat crouched in a corner of the room, her 
arms round her knees, looking at the feeble figure in the 
arm-chair. 


CONCLUSION. 461 

The Captain spoke little, he suffered no pain, he was 
perfectly cheerful. 

‘‘ Do you think they will come in time, Laddy ? ” he asked. 

I should like to see them before I go.’" 

Presently he slept, and so passed away the morning un- 
consciously, the black eyes of the woman watching him from 
the corner. Outside there were gathered knots of twos and 
threes, the women, the old salts, the outcasts, waiting sadly 
for news. 

Leonard and Celia came a.t last. The old man woke as he 
heard “ the boy’s” voice, and eagerly held out his hand. 

Don’t cry, my pretty. Don’t cry, Celia, my dear,” he 
whispered. To every man his turn, and then we separate 
for a while — a little while, Celia, and then we shall all be 
together — you and Leonard and Laddy and I — all together, 
dear. Never to part again.” 

He was growing weaker every moment. I gave him a 
little wine. As Celia knelt at his feet and laid her head 
upon his right hand, the other woman, as if jealous, crept 
stealthily from her corner and seized the left. The Captain 
looked down on both, turned from one to the other, and 
then, disengaging his hands, laid one on either head, as if 
with a solemn blessing, equal alike for Martha or for 
Magdalene. 

“Laddy,” he murmured, “put on my uniform, coat, and 
cap, and give me my sword.” 

It was his fancy that he would die in the uniform of which 
he was so proud. We dressed him in the coat and epaulettes ; 
we pinned on his medals, we laid his sword across his knees, 
and we placed his undress cap upon his head. And then we 
stood round him in tearful silence. 

Presently a shiver ran through his limbs. 

“ Leonard ” — his voice was very low now — “ take the 
sword. It is all I leave you. God bless you, Leonard — 

Laddy — Celia — and you His hand felt out as if for 

the poor woman, who threw herself forward with sobs and 
passionate crying. 

And then a strange thing happened. His voice, which 


462 


BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 


had been sinking to a faint murmur, suddenly grew full 
again and strong. He lifted his figure and sat upright. 
His eyes flashed with a sudden light as he raised his voice 
and looked upwards. He lifted his right hand to the peak 
of his cap — the old familiar salute of a sailor — as he reported 
himself — 

Come aboard, sir ! ” 

Then his hand dropped and his head fell forward. The 
Captain was dead. 

We buried him in the old parish churchyard, a mile from 
the town. Leonard’s mother lay there, somewhere among 
the paupers; Wassielewski slept there in peace, Poland at 
last forgotten : Wassielew ski’s victim lay there too. The 
brand-new cemetery, which they opened a year or so later, 
would have been no fitting place for the remains of one 
who in death, as well as in life, should be among his 

fellow-men. And in that great heap of bones, coffins 

and human dust, piled five feet above the level of the 

road, we laid the Captain. It was not without a certain 

fitness that his grave lay next to the Paupers’ Acre. When 
the great Resurrection shall take place the Captain shall 
lift his head with the ignoble and unknown herd for 
whom he gave his substance, and march along with them 
to that merciful Judge who knows the secret of every 
heart. 

While we were yet half a mile from the church the funeral 
procession was stopped. There was a crowd of old sailors 
and people of every degree, but chiefly of the lowest ; some 
of them stopped the hearse, and others, opening the doors of 
the carriages, invited the occupants to descend. We com- 
plied wondering. They quickly formed themselves into pro- 
cession. First went the old tars, two and two, stumping on 
wooden legs ; then came a band, then the coffin borne on the 
shoulders of sailors, sons of those who marched first ; on the 
pall were the Captain’s cocked hat and his sword, and then 
we, the mourners, fell in. 

The big drum, muffled, gives the signal — bourn — bourn ! 


CONCLUSION. 


463 


How many times before had that March from Saul awakened 
my soul to the glory and mystery of death ; the knell of 
warning, the wail of sorrow, the upward cry of yearning faith 
— and now I can never hear it without my thoughts flying 
back to the old man before whose honoured remains a grate- 
ful and lamenting folk did this reverence. 

Bourn — bourn — bourn ! A man who loved his fellow- 
men is dead. He will bring no more words of counsel, 
no more exhortations to duty — no more comfort for the 
afflicted, no more solace for the outcast. Bourn — bourn — 
bourn! Wail and weep, clarions, with us whose hearts 
are sore. Bourn — bourn — bourn ! And yet it is but for a 
season. Change, oh music inspired of God, the souls 
of those who mourn till they become the souls of those who 
trust. 

We are at the lych-gate. Mr. Broughton — none other 
— waits to read the service. 

I am the Resurrection and the Life ” 

From every lane and court, from every ship in harbour, 
from every street, the mourners are gathered together: in 
the presence of Death, in the graveyard, in the hopes of 
immortality, we are all eqijal; all brothers and sisters. 
The women weep aloud ; there is not one who is unrepen- 
tant now; the tears run down the faces of the grizzled 
men who are standing by the grave of their brave and 
single-hearted old officer ; none in all the world to harbour 
an evil thought, to raise an accusing word, against the 
man of seventy summers who lies in yon black coffin. 
Throw flowers upon him ; pile the lid with flowers, with 
every flower a tear. The flowers will be crushed and 
killed by the cold clay, but the memory of the Captain 
shall be green. 

And of all the mourners around that grave there were 
none — there could be none — who mourned the Captain 
more deeply, who loved him better, who owed him more 
than the two boys whom he had picked from the very 
gutter, to bring them up in the fear of God and the sense 
of duty. 


464 


BY CELIA’S AKBOUR 


When Mr. Broughton came to certain words in the 
service his voice fell, and his speech was choked for a 
moment. Then he cleared his throat, and looking round 
upon the folk, read out in clear and triumphant tones, as 
if the words should at once bring admonition, as well as 
joy and consolation and hope for us all — 

‘‘ In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal 

Lifer 


THE END. 






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